


Painted Wings and Giant Rings

by dragonnan



Category: Psych
Genre: Blood and Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug, Everyone hurts, F/M, Hurt Shawn, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of Hurts, Major Original Character(s), Misunderstandings, Original Chapter First Published: March 2011 on Psychfic, Originally Posted Elsewhere, Post Yang 3 in 2D, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Lassiter, Psychological Trauma, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shawn Whump, Suicide Attempt, This is a Long Saga of Heartache, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-02 11:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 81,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13317549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: There was a future he'd, more or less, planned for. A future set... in the future. Way in the future. And it was awesome! It was going to be so great! Was... Once.But now everything is different.And they can never go back.Set a few months after "Yang 3 in 2D"





	1. Swallowing Black Memories

“Rhonda?” Shawn winced at the Beach Boys tune that started to play in his brain. He would not sink so low as to actually hum a few bars. He did have some class no matter what Gus said.

 

“Shawn?” The woman glanced around herself before waving her hand towards the only other seat at the table. “Thank God, I'm so glad you made it.”

 

~

 

His head was throbbing. Eye opening attempt one, two, and three resulted in bright light, squinting blur, and tightly pinched lids. He groaned and rolled to his side, feeling the pain in his abdomen and the taste of old alcohol behind his teeth.

 

There was a shuffle of fabric behind him and then gentle fingers touched his shoulder.

 

“Jules?”

 

The fingers patted him. “Is she your girlfriend?”

 

Shawn rolled the other way fast, jerking back as his eyes forced back sluggish lids. A woman he struggled to remember was sitting on the edge of the bed, one strap from her sleeveless shirt falling off her shoulder.

 

“Wha-who..?”

 

“You passed out.” She shrugged before standing. Shawn sniffed and rubbed his lips, scanning the room while bits and pieces started collecting back in his head.

 

~

 

“I can't believe I'm suggesting this, but you really should be talking to the police. Don't let the lanky Irish fellow fool you, he can operate a taser better than Jack Hanna can tame wild orangutans.”

 

The little smile only flitted up for a second but at least she'd begun to relax. The alcohol may have contributed some as well. Shawn was happy to stick with his virgin mudslide. Gus wasn't there to drive him home and he wasn't about to risk a DUI on his bike.

 

“I don't know... I just... I feel more comfortable just talking to you.”

 

~

 

The woman... he knew her. She was... she was his client. She'd called him at the office; was afraid to go to the police because she thought her ex husband was stalking her but didn't have enough evidence to prove it. She was worried about being followed and... and asked... asked him to meet her at a bar.

 

He scrubbed at his still blurry vision. His head was still throbbing and his lower belly felt like it had been pummeled by John Cena.

 

“You okay? I'm sorry, I probably should have called the cops but...”

 

Shawn turned towards the woman, Rhonda Leeds. She was twisting her hands together before her.

 

~

 

“I know I asked you to meet me here, but now I think it was a bad idea. Is there somewhere else we can go? Maybe... I don't know... a hotel or something?” Then her face flushed bright – probably at the way that had sounded, and Shawn smiled his best schoolboy smile.

 

“We can go wherever you feel the most comfortable. I promise you, you're going to be okay.”

 

~

 

A few seconds of thought and Shawn shook his head. “No... no, that's okay...” Why was it so hard to think? He rarely drank enough to get heavily inebriated and he couldn't believe he'd done so while working a case. Maybe he'd been poisoned again? He hadn't seen anyone suspicious but that didn't mean much right that moment.

 

He pushed up on the bed, wobbly and a little sick. The pain through his body tripled at the small movement and he hunched forward, cradling his belly. God he was _so_ puking. Maybe Mrs. Leeds would be nice enough to slide the potted ficus his way.

 

“Here.” Wet cloth held out to him below his chin he hadn't heard her leave the room or return. He took the small towel and pressed it against his eyes.

 

~

 

They'd only stayed at the bar for about ten minutes. Long enough for her to order him another drink. One beer. Definitely not the side effects of a drunken stupor. And then... and then they'd been driving... She'd been afraid of being followed or... something? And then nothing.

 

~

 

“When...” He swallowed, pushing down the flutter of acid, “when we were at the bar. Do you remember anyone sitting close to us or watching us?” And it didn't get past him how odd it was for him to be asking that question. He was struggling to fill in the missing spots – memory holes that remained annoyingly blank. He remembered agreeing to meet with her at a more “secure location” but couldn't remember anything of the journey.

 

“No, I didn't see anybody. Are you sure you're okay? Maybe you should lie down again.”

 

Shawn waved her back when she seemed prepared to push him back to the mattress. He needed to call Gus to pick him up. But more importantly, he really had to pee.

 

The journey to his feet, _why was he barefoot?_ Involved a lot of wobbling and a need to grab the headboard to prevent a faceplant. His jeans felt tacky when he started to move away from the bed and he flushed hard at whatever dream had prompted _that_. Oh God he hoped that had been private!

 

“I'm just...” He gestured for the bathroom without looking up – eyes serving him better by concentrating on the ancient carpet.

 

Once locked behind the door, he resumed squinting, bright fluorescent light drilling through his head. Another stumble as he moved to the sink and he bumped the faucet on with the side of his hand. The nausea was worse, even with the splash of cold water across his eyes. He spit several times to clear the taste from his mouth – little good that it did – and then proceeded to the toilet.

 

More aches and stings made an appearance as he relieved himself but groggy disorientation didn't really let him dwell on it long. He just wanted to go home.

 

Not thrilled to pull his soiled clothes back up, he grimaced and made the best of it, promising himself a long shower when he got back to his apartment. His phone was still in his back pocket and he was just getting ready to dial when he realized he had no idea where he was. He almost dropped his cell before fumbling it back in his pocket, fingers shaky as he unlocked the door and reentered the main area of the room.

 

Rhonda was closer now, next to the chipped dresser. She was just setting the phone back in it's cradle. “I called the police. He's gone after you now and I can't bear it if you're hurt because of me.”

 

He nodded, knowing there was something about a phone he needed to remember. “Gus...”

 

“Here, this will help.”

 

Shawn nearly pitched forward until a hand on his arm guided him back to the bed. Rhonda pushed a glass of water in his hand and he held in against his chest until she reclaimed it and helped him take a few swallows. Her fingers brushed at his hairline but he pulled away. He needed to call Gus. Had to remember to call Gus.

 

More sips of water, some spilling down his front, until the glass was emptied. He blinked, feeling as though he were floating, and saw the ceiling above him. He was on his back with no memory of how that had happened.

 

Maybe he was supposed to be going to sleep? He felt like sleeping, but his brain didn't want to stop humming. He was trapped in the middle and the desire to start babbling twisted around his tongue – glued it to his mouth like the lips that were suddenly pressed there – forcing them apart and lapping inside, across he teeth and his bound tongue. Something stung through his chest that he couldn't grasp. It was urgent for only seconds before a watery skim across his eyes distracted him. Tactile sensation came and went – sharp taps on his chest and the passing note that his shirt was gone. He fought with attention that dragged his eyes open and shut.

 

There was a tickle on his belly. Wet, warm, and made the muscles jump. It was nice... but it shouldn't have been nice. What was happening? Why couldn't he... think?

 

There was a clock nearby. Not digital but an old timey one that ticked with the seconds. Tick, tick, tick... He could set the pace of his thoughts to it like a metronome... metrodome? He didn't know which word was right. He forget why it mattered.

 

He abruptly imagined a snake shedding its skin. Long diamond pattern peeling from its body, the sound of loose change scattering over the carpet. The sound of heavy denim hitting the wall with the clink of the button against the flowered wallpaper.

 

Lips buried into his again.

 

He was supposed to call Gus. Gus was going to meet him at the storage yard but he got shot and now he couldn't move his arms.

 

A shadow of something small and white followed the path of shed denim. He knew what it was but couldn't find the name.

 

“ _How many hats?”_

 

He was supposed to count. Dad said it could save his life someday. Hats didn't kill people. People wearing hats killed people.

 

His whole body flinched. Something touched against him somewhere and it made him jump. He was so warm though. And it kept getting warmer. He twisted his head sideways as the warm burst through his belly. He inhaled, sharp, through his nose.

 

He was fuzzy on current events but somewhere in all the dreaminess he heard his voice lift out in a slur. He didn't know what he said but he was gently shushed – fingers patting against his lips. “Shh... shh...”

 

_Dad... Lassie... Please don't go! I'm here! I'm right here! Please look at me!_

 

The fingers brushed over his cheek. He felt them smear a path of wetness away. There was soft speech but the words were a jumble.

 

His body jerked again, but this time he hadn't created the motion. Lips on his cheek. Another jerk, and another. Something shivered from his throat and the lips covered his mouth – tasting the quivering note. Steady jerking now; choppy ocean waves. They were looking for a murdered seal. No, for the men that had murdered the seal. But it wasn't men; it was a shark. And his dad killed it because he was tied under a pier.

 

The water was rising around his shoulders. The waves were crashing against him, burning him. He could feel pain as they struck again and again.

 

His eyes rolled open and sweat dripped from above. Blurry shape and hair curling down to his face. His body was shaking and someone was pounding on the door – a steady, regular beat. He wanted to answer but he couldn't move. He was taped to a chair and he couldn't yell. The poison was lowering to kill Gus. Dad and Lassie just walked away.

 

~

 

 

He shivered.

 

All the lights were off. Everything from the neck up was a smudge of messy colors. It tore his gut to hell but from the stink, he'd already emptied it once.

 

“Hello?” Shreddy, weak hack of sound. The effort of speech struck a coughing fit, spilling more pain through his throat. He groaned and let his head sink back to his pillow. Was he sick? It was like the worst flu ever in the world. Ever in history. He really needed to puke again but the bed was so not the place for that.

 

He forced his eyes to see the pattern of the blanket spread across him.

 

Where the hell was he?

 

His hands were trapped under his belly. The blanket on top of him weighed a thousand pounds and was stifling besides. He could hardly breathe under it. He tugged with his shoulders, everything from his biceps down feeling numb and useless. He had to rest a lot with every inch gained. Finally, though, his left arm and then his right yanked out from under his body. The pressure of twisted fabric had left crazy lines and patterns in his skin – his arms flushed from the weight.

 

Soon, he could feel the tingles start and he groaned as they raced up and down his limbs – psychotic ants tormenting him just beneath the skin.

 

He might have dozed off again while waiting out the maddening tingles. This time it was a perky chime that pulled him from slumber. Distant and a little muffled, he still recognized his cell phone. The blanket was still crushing him, but he gripped the mattress with his fingers, hitching forward with a series of gasps at the pain it caused. Something was wrong but he couldn't quite place it. The edge of the bed was right in front of him and he hooked his arm over the lip, hauling himself close. Too close, his body toppled halfway to the floor, legs still caught up in the bedding.

 

His breath wheezed at the angle and he twisted, trying to free himself. He was starting to panic just a little when the blanket loosened and he dropped all the way to the floor. A yelp as his limbs impacted the carpet and he curled into himself, arms around his belly.

 

He watched ancient fibers puff away from his lips. There was a shirt on the floor about three feet away next to a fiberboard end table. It was light blue with dark stripes. It was his shirt.

 

He coughed, sucking in a few shudders, and pushed with his arms against the floor. The action made him tremble but at least he didn't fall.

 

He felt shivers wash down his body and it sank in that it wasn't just his shirt that was missing. He blushed but the embarrassment wasn't as strong as the confusion. He remembered he was crawling for his shirt and he reached for it, stretching his length to snag the collar and tug it towards him. Somehow he was able to push up into a sit, leaning back against the bed to work the garment over his head – twice sticking his arm through the neck opening before making sense of the various holes.

 

Buttons down the front, at least it wasn't on backwards.

 

He heard the soft jingle again. The attempted turn ended in his body thudding sideways. Muscles were jumpy under the skin but rather than lie there, and oh he just wanted to sleep, he gripped the bed for support and started down the side. It took more minutes than he could track to reach the end of the mattress. Crumpled jeans and a pair of boxers lay against the far wall, the green case of his phone half spilled from the pocket. As if generated by his stare, the peppy tune began once more.

 

Shawn pushed his elbows into the carpet and crawled. He shook sweat rich hair off his forehead only to have it fall back – tickling the crease of skin caused by the strain of movement. He reached his phone seconds after the last chime, the cell vibrating moments later as a message was left. One of many, he saw, after looking over the screen.

 

Then he saw the date and time and his mouth dropped open. What was the last day he could remember? Tuesday? No... no, Thursday. Client... His client had called him on Thursday. And now it was Sunday afternoon...

 

That went a ways towards explaining some of his aches if he hadn't eaten in three days. Even thinking it, now, he felt a burp of acid troll through his gut.

 

It was much more work to dress his lower half. And a lot more pain. It felt as though his jeans were lined with broken glass or something. Teeth gritting only went so far before he was forced to release a series of small whimpers – shaky and just shy of tear filled. He'd only looked down once at the bruising before looking away. He didn't have time for that now.

 

He needed... he needed Gus. He needed to call Gus.

 

He picked up his phone.

 


	2. They Bury Their Dead in the Dark

 

  
  


  


When he pulled into the parking space, Gus considered, again, that he really needed to start carrying a can of pepper spray on his person at all times. “Shoddy” was a kind description. Something one would use to convince a date that the place might not be infested with giant forest rodents in spite of the appearance.

 

Just finding the place had been an adventure, Shawn barely staying on track long enough to remember who he was even talking to. A distracted best friend was par for the course. Babbling Shawn an expected and easily dealt with animal after years of regular exposure. But this version of his friend... He'd almost sounded like he was high. And that didn't make sense. Even during the years when the most contact he had from his friend was a random postcard, Gus never worried that Shawn was experimenting with anything stronger than aged tequila. He knew his friend. Shawn didn't take drugs. He hated them. And not for any dark reason, like he'd known people who'd ODed on the stuff or been prescribed meds as a kid, but because of the way they could screw with a person's head. Keeping his brain on track was enough of a challenge without adding opiates.

 

It was the middle of the afternoon, but Gus still checked his mirrors and did a full three sixty scan of the lot before putting his fingers on the door handle. This place was like murder central and the faster he got Shawn out of there the better.

 

He kept his keys in one hand, the blunt bits of metal jutting between his fingers in what he hoped was an effective deterrent for whatever criminals were watching from behind all those dingy curtains. Yeah, they were just keys, but he carried them like they were a loaded shotgun primed for action. He could do badass to save his skin. Damn right he could.

 

Hoping Shawn hadn't muddled the room number. Hoping he hadn't muddled the address of the motel for that matter, Gus reached up and rapped his knuckles on the door. He waited. “Shawn?”

 

Some sort of noise on the other side, then...

 

“Gus?”

 

The grip on the keys loosened just a bit. “Shawn, open the door.”

 

More sounds. What was the guy doing, kicking furniture? And then a soft thump against the door. Gus leaned in a little, waiting. “Shawn?”

 

He was about to try lock picking when the knob finally turned.

 

One more look around to make sure killers hadn't snuck up behind him while he was cajoling his friend and Gus turned back to the opening door.

 

“Shawn... is your shirt inside out?” It was the first thing to spill out his mouth – the only thing that made it past the total shock of seeing his friend. Shawn was... he looked like he'd spent the last three nights sleeping under a bus. And sleeping poorly besides. Eyes bloodshot and watery, clothes and hair a mess. And he couldn't keep eye contact.

 

“We need to get you out of here. I'm taking you to a hospital.”

 

No, Gus... I'm f...”

 

“Don't give me that crap, Shawn! Now can you walk?” Good question as Shawn seemed to be wobbling even with a grip on the door frame. He also seemed to be taking a very long time working up to an answer, so Gus looped his arm around Shawn's back and hugged him to his side. He was glad Shawn had enough sense to grab him back. As they pulled away from the door, Shawn sagged and Gus had to brace his legs or risk dropping him. He should have called Henry the minute he'd hung up with Shawn. They'd been worried but not panicked with the sudden radio silence. The last few months had been rough and they both knew Shawn probably just needed to get out of his own head for a while.

 

Juliet though... She'd been ready to track the GPS on Shawn's phone. Yin might be dead but that didn't seem to comfort her much. She was still working through her ordeal from the previous game and from what Gus had picked up, it seemed like she hadn't even tried addressing the last go 'round.

 

Hell, who was he kidding? None of them were dealing all that well with the last go 'round. He still had nightmares of that needle jabbing into his arm.

 

“Just a few more feet.” Shawn's feet were dragging – skidding toe-heavy across the parking lot. A door slamming made them both jump but a quick head jerk left only brought a maid into view, not John Wayne Gacy. Holy crap, this place employed maids?

 

Getting Shawn into the car was the hardest part of the whole adventure. The little walk had wiped him out and the sag had become a slump – boneless Shawn making an appearance in the ninth hour. Gus had to pull his friend across his chest and bend backward; one arm locked across his chest while he tricked the door open. Installing the slack form in the front seat, Gus rubbed his wrist across his brow before jogging to the other side.

 

Once behind the wheel, he made certain all four doors were locked and the windows were rolled up as tight as they would go. Five minutes later he was barely keeping it under the speed limit as he raced back towards the city. Ignoring his policy to never talk on the phone while driving, he dialed with one hand. Call Henry or call Jules? An easier choice when he factored in which one could hurt him more.

 

The line picked up on the other end and he took a deep breath.

 

“Mr. Spencer? I found Shawn.”

 

~

 

 

The fog was still there, drifting him through unreality and hazing out the bits that tried to make sense. He knew he'd been in a car. There'd been a conversation, and then a rocking movement. When the fuzziness seeped back again he was lying on a bed. When he brushed his hands down his chest he found that his shirt was gone again, but had been replaced with a garment that covered him neck to ankles. He had a blanket too but that was fine because it wasn't heavy.

 

“Mr. Spencer?”

 

Shawn looked up from his bed. There was a doctor by the door. Or a really old nurse with a nice tie. Shawn hadn't answered yet but the doctor didn't seem to need him to as he walked further into the room.

 

“Glad to see you awake. I'm Doctor Reese. Can you tell me your name?”

 

Sticky tongue probed the inside of his lips before they managed to pull apart.

 

“Shawn.”

 

A metal rod slid under his tongue – seconds ticking down until there was a small beep.

 

“Do you know what day it is?”

 

Shawn closed his eyes, fingers rising to his head. Something dragged with the motion and he looked down to see a needle jabbed into a vein and taped down. “Um... it's ahh...” He looked back at the doctor, shaking his head.

 

“Never mind. You'll have some memory loss. That's normal given what you've injested.”

 

More confusion and a head shake – wasted attempt to knock free the cobwebs. “I took something?” That didn't sound right.

 

“We ran your blood and took a urine sample. The lab found large quantities of Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid as well as trace amounts of Viagra. Along with alcohol you're lucky you're still alive.”

 

Shawn rubbed his eyes. “Hydro... what?”

 

“More commonly known as GHB. It's very dangerous and very easy to overdose.”

 

This was wrong. This was way, way wrong. “I don't... I don't remember...”

 

The touch of the blood pressure cuff startled him and he yanked his arm back. The doctor apologized, waiting until he calmed before wrapping it around his arm. Shawn winced as the cuff began filling with air. After a few seconds, it began to deflate again in measured doses. When fully slack once more, the doctor peeled apart the velcro and removed it. He jotted down the blood pressure numbers before turning back to his patient.

 

He sighed, grasping both hands around his clipboard. “Shawn, you should know that we performed a full exam when you were brought in. You were unconscious and unresponsive and it was important to establish what was wrong so we could devise the best treatment.”

 

Shawn sank down into his pillow. He wanted the old man to go away. But the doctor just kept talking.

 

“Aside from the drugs, you're mildly dehydrated. We also found moderate bruising across your lower abdomen and genitals. Now, I don't want to conjecture what may have happened to you, but I'm going to advise you meet with a councilor. We have someone on staff if you'd like their number.”

 

The words became a mushy buzz. He'd heard enough; clips of memories starting to press against his brain. He saw only a couple before slamming the door shut. Not now. He didn't know if it was real and he wouldn't make wild leaps just because of an owie in a very personal place.

 

“Can I go now?”

 

The doctor nodded. “We can't keep you here, but I want to encourage you to seek help. If not from us, then from someone you trust. And take things slow for the next few days. If you have any difficulty urinating or if there's blood in your urine then I want you to come in immediately.”

 

Before he could rip it away himself, the doctor removed the IV and raised the bed to make it easier for Shawn to get up.

 

"Your clothes are in a chair next to the wall. I'll give you some privacy to change while I write you a prescription for your pain and get your paperwork together.”

 

It was less of a struggle to get out of this bed than the last one, but it still involved a lot of wincing and held breath. He found his clothes where the doctor had said they'd be. They hadn't been washed and seemed even worse off than they last time he'd put them on.

 

He debated sticking with the gown but the open back was a point against that plan.

 

He found Gus in the waiting room along with...

 

“Dad.”

 

“Shawn, thank God!” Arms wrapped him before he could prepare and he froze, mind whiting out in panic. Even his breath stopped, his mind attacked by barely covered images. They were about to break free and he shivered with the effort of crushing them back down again.

 

Frowning, his dad backed off a little, though his hands remained on his shoulders. “Shawn?”

 

He was horrified to feel something wet sliding down his cheek and he shook one arm free to wipe it away. “I'm okay.” He sniffed and pulled away from the hand still resting on his left shoulder. He let out a clearing gasp and gave one more brush across his eyes.

 

He was still wobbly on his feet but not enough that he had to worry about tripping over his toes.

 

“Let's get out of here.”

 

“Shawn, wait – what the hell happ-”

 

“I'm not doing this right now!” His shout made the people in the waiting room glance his way; turned Gus's concerned study from the sidelines into brow creasing fear. Shawn shook his head. “I just... Later, okay?”

 

Later wasn't sitting right with his father. But maybe he'd realized the middle of a hospital wasn't the best place for a showdown because he relented to the plea.

 

They made it past the nurse's station, through the parking lot, and to the vehicles before the next conflict arose. Shawn insisted on going back to his apartment. Aside from an urgent wardrobe change, he really just needed to get away from everyone. His head was still throbbing with pictures and fog and he needed to work his way through it. Assemble the 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle and see if it matched the box.

 

Henry, though, refused to give in to that need.

 

“You're coming back to the house. End of discussion.”

 

He'd used that tone and practically the same words during the game with Yin a year earlier. It may have worked at the time, but right that moment Shawn was ready for a fight no matter how drained he felt.

 

“You don't have a say! Like it or not, dad, I haven't had you in charge of my life in over fifteen years and, what a _**shock**_ , I've been just fine!”

 

“What part of this,” his father gestured to his whole body, “is just fine, Shawn?”

 

He always did that. Henry Spencer's never-ending need to win no matter what the cost. Retaliate with something that there was no response to just for the satisfaction of seeing defeat in his opponent’s eyes.

 

Shawn wasn't ready to concede. He had a burn in his chest to push this. To fight. To see his dad backing down for once – mute. The loser.

 

But for the pain. The hurt wasn't going away by standing there, tight fisted and furious. The pictures may have lessened some with his rage but they were still there. And with every breath in and out, pulling him more into exhaustion, they became harder to hold back.

 

He was going to have to see them soon, watch them play in his mind, and did he honestly want to be alone when they did?

 

He didn't say a word to show he'd given in, but his father didn't need him to. It was something in the way Shawn's body shrank into itself. He didn't flinch at the shoulder pat this time. Gus was still watching them both. He rarely intervened in a Spencer blow out. His side taking, while usually favoring Shawn in private, had an irritating habit of flipping when food was present. Or when he genuinely thought Henry was in the right. And Shawn knew without even looking at him what side Gus was on now. It stung, but it was another battle he just didn't have the strength for any longer.

 

He didn't speak to Gus as he pulled himself into the truck, though part of that was from keeping his lips together to hide his clenching teeth – a secondary barrier against the wails he wished he could make.

 

Gus said something about calling later, checking in or something. Henry responded when Shawn didn't so much as nod. He wasn't, honestly, trying to ignore his friend. It was just taking time to process the comment.

 

But once the door was shut and the truck turned out on the highway, he lost whatever reprieve he'd had.

 

“What the hell happened, Shawn!? You're off the grid for almost three days, nobody can get ahold of you, and then you turn up at some sleazy hotel? What were you even doing there?”

 

“I...” _“I feel more comfortable just talking to you.”_

 

He stared out the window. He couldn't place the sequence. He couldn't remember all the pieces no matter how his brain tried to arrange them. He grabbed onto the first solid fact that came to him. “I had a client. She... she was afraid... her ex husband was stalking her and...”

 

“And you just went to see her alone? Why didn't you tell her to go to the police? A stalking case is nothing to fool around with kid!”

 

Shawn could swear the steering wheel would crack the way his dad was twisting his hands around it. The anger he'd subdued roared back like a flash bang.

 

“I _did_ tell her to call the police!”

 

“But you still met with her; alone.”

 

“Yeah, dad, I did! Look, she was scared, alright? She was afraid the cops couldn't help her...”

 

“But she thought you could. And you let her believe it.” Henry shook his head, his own eyes fixed out the windshield as he drove.

 

This was exactly why Shawn had wanted to go home. Alone. He was just a prisoner now for however long his father chose to keep him incarcerated. Unless Gus came to his senses there was no hope of getting away. He wouldn't make it far under his own power, he knew that, but dammit he'd crawl if he had to.

 

Then, for a full five seconds, he remembered he had another player on his team. Someone who stood up for him, stood beside him unconditionally. Someone who he hadn't even thought to call and who was probably worried to death by now. His hand shoved towards his pocket – felt out the shape of his phone and had gripped the smooth plastic to draw it free when-

 

_Shaking – hair swinging overhead, back and forth. Lips, pink smudged and baring teeth. He felt weight low on his body – force shoving against him..._

 

Shawn's hand jerked back, trembling as it pressed against his lips instead. How... how could he talk to her after... oh God...

 

“Shawn?”

 

His muscles felt brittle and overused. He heard the change in tone but he couldn't look towards his father, not now. What would his dad see in his face? His father had an unnatural skill in reading his son at a glance. He knew every nuance of guilt and could deduce the cause with little more to go on than the upward tilt of his son's guilt denying smile. Maybe a handful of times had Shawn pulled a fast one before Henry could catch the lie.

 

“I can't do this with you right now.” He finally croaked, still staring out the side window. Staring and staring as the stare at his back tried to sear right through his skull and unearth the monstrosity he was fast trying to bury. Enough dirt on top and he could forget the whole thing. He might be able to remember the color of socks he wore on the first day of kindergarten but that didn't mean he had to keep the last few days as any sort of keepsake. He'd seen terror on his mother's face for the first time in his life when she'd been strapped to a bomb. He'd seen that same terror on his best friend's face when a needle loaded with poison had dented the skin of his arm. He'd held a dying man in his arms and watched him bleed out on the floor. And yet, he'd come through all of it without a scratch; physical, emotional, or psychological.

 

He could still laugh after all that and he could still laugh after this too. And there was no point in talking about it because it didn't matter. He hadn't been hurt. Well... nothing that wouldn't heal. A gunshot wound to the shoulder had felt worse by leagues.

 

He'd be fine.

 

And nobody else had to know.

 

The first swallow hit a gluey patch in his throat but consecutive attempts helped to clear the block. “Think we can grab some food? I haven't eaten in... Well, I haven't eaten.”

 

That look. He could see it evaluating him from the edge of his vision. Then his dad huffed.

 

“Yeah.” A turn of the wheel at the next street took them on a path towards downtown and a plethora of drive-thrus. Henry was no fan of window served meals but there were times when he'd been known to make exceptions. Shaky hands from his starved offspring were apparently another one to add to the list.

 

But before any part of Shawn could muster a gloat, he was blindsided by something he should have seen coming.

 

“Eat something. Take a shower. Sleep. But when you get up, you're going to tell me everything that happened.”

 

Letting out a long sigh, hands slipping into his pockets, Shawn made a show of pouting before he finally rolled his eyes and nodded. “Okay.” Inside his pockets, he crossed his fingers.

 

Henry nodded back, face losing some of the tightness Shawn only now noticed had been lurking in his eyes. And because of that, he felt solidified in his decision. Dad would know enough of the truth to keep him content. He'd get to play nursemaid for a while, Shawn would get to sleep in for a few days, and soon enough they'd chalk this one up to just another silly adventure.

 

They'd even laugh about it.

 

Yeah. Everything was going to work out just fine.


	3. Only the Black

 

 

 

 

Henry had no opinions about fast food places. One greasy burger was the same as the next and just as lacking in flavor. His son could extol their virtues, point out minute variances between one restaurant’s special sauce over another's secret spices. But the end result was always the same. A nauseous belly and a night of heartburn.

 

But he'd known it wasn't hunger that had driven Shawn to make his request this time. He'd seen the distraction for what it was; years worth of his son's magician’s tricks has made him wise to the slight of hand. And this was long before Shawn had started to make a career out of it.

 

They'd gone to the pharmacy to collect Shawn's prescription before heading on to the burger joint of his choice, both being in the same general area. And though instructed to take the medication with food, Shawn had swallowed two pills before Henry had even turned into the drive thru. He'd placed the order, double something extra large, no pickles, and had pulled forward to pay and grab the oily bag and that overly large paper cup almost too big for the cup holder. In spite of his 'no food in the truck' rule, Henry had actually encouraged Shawn to eat. He didn't like the pinched look around Shawn's eyes or the dark circles beneath. And the lack of an explanation was leading to another blow up.

 

Plucking a few fries from the bag, Shawn chewed at them with his attention fixed out the side window. He hadn't met his father's eyes since he'd been picked up from the hospital and the inattention was tugging something tight in Henry's chest. Misdirection seemed to be a family trait because instead of asking what was wrong, Henry tipped his head towards the bag.

 

“Thought you were hungry.”

 

Shawn didn't answer him but, as though a switch had been flipped, he pulled the burger free and barely took the time to peel away the paper before he started wolfing it down. Drips of grease, mustard, and ketchup spotted his shirt but he took no notice – handfuls of fries wedging in between the massive bites of burger.

 

“Woah, woah, woah, slow down! You're gonna choke yourself!”

 

The bites didn't stop but at least his son had the sense to ease the food down with several long pulls from his soda. The coughing fit brought on by the sudden burst of carbonation gave Henry time to ease into a parking lot and take the remaining food from Shawn's hands. Only a few bites of burger were left now and the fries were gone save for a couple at the bottom of the bag. Shawn was still coughing and Henry reached out to slap him on the back when Shawn flinched away from him. Then he was tugging at the door handle and spilling his body out into the lot. Door left hanging on its hinges, Shawn made it as far as the front bumper before he curled over and vomited next to the wheel.

 

Henry was still sliding off the seat when Shawn started to gag. Hurrying around the front of the vehicle, he made it in time to grip his son by the shoulders as he convulsed again. Thick spatter covered both of their shoes, though Henry's attention was locked on the pale face flushed pinkish red across the cheeks and brow.

 

He held him steady through a couple more thrusts of his gut – forcing a mouth rinse of soda once the dry heaves stopped. Shawn sagged against the side of the truck, one arm spread over the hood as he merely breathed.

 

Twice Henry opened his mouth, tongue working across his lips while his mind chugged against the thrumming beat of his heart – a need to demand answers right that moment. Right on the side of the road, witnesses be damned. There was something ugly sitting against his spine; an instinct that knew that what his son was hiding was far deeper than the brush off he'd tried to give him at the hospital. When Shawn was sick, he always begged for sympathy – playing it up like he was all of ten and trying to get out of school. The gunshot wound he'd milked well past the point where the tissues had healed – whipping out the wounded hero card to avoid everything from buying his own groceries to driving himself to the office.

 

But there were times when Shawn hid his hurts too. Buried them, laughed them off, and tried to make everyone around him forget they even existed. When it went deeper than flesh. When it tore something of his soul. And that was Henry's fear, now. Something had happened over the last three days; something that had hurt his son terribly.

 

He was prepared to confront that hurt right then and there when Shawn looked up. Eyes bleary and streaked red, he blinked as though trying to remember where he was. Seconds later, he shuddered, lips twisting; no doubt at the foulness on his tongue. A sip more of soda, swishing it around before spitting it to the concrete, and he dragged his body back towards the still open passenger door.

 

“Can we go home?”

 

Meek, embarrassed, and terribly small. Henry could only nod at the shaky tone.

 

Back in the truck, neither spoke as Henry started the engine again, checking his mirrors before pulling into traffic.

 

There were still answers to questions waiting to be asked. But he knew that now wasn't the time. Soon. Very soon it would be. This couldn't be allowed to linger – not with the way the walls were already beginning to form. But an evening of sleep, at least, he could allow.

 

~

 

The embarrassing side of the road incident was fast becoming blurry and forgettable by the time Shawn shuffled across the deck towards the door. The medication he'd chowed down on had started dong its thing in spite of his efforts to puke it out with chewed cow carcass and masticated Idaho wedges. His belly was still a softly twisting mass but at least the far worse discomfort areas south had become more of a numb throb than a jabbing ache. He could move without any tell-tale wincing at least. Cupping the abused areas was a giveaway he wasn't really ever up to sharing with Mr. Spidey Senses still watching him like he was a three year old deciding between a bottle of bleach and a handful of bullets for his afternoon snack. Too tired to fabricate a plausible when, where, and why at the moment, he just wanted to get to his room and pass out for the length of time it took for his mind to do the work without his active participation. It wouldn't be impossible – though he suspected the small bout of caterwauling at the hospital may have edged this out of a simpler tale. Still, he could blame that on the drugs they'd found in his blood. No need to mention what _kind_ of drugs after all. Shawn had spent the better part of his adult life keeping all manner of ammunition out of his father's hands. He wasn't about to stop now.

 

Passing through the kitchen long enough to drag a bottle of water from the fridge, Shawn uncapped the cooling liquid and sucked down half the contents as he pivoted towards the stairs. And almost barreled right into Henry, who'd obviously shadowed him the whole way inside. Two steadying hands on his biceps were cause for another flinch – more like a tight backward jerk and the near loss of his water. The return look for that reaction was hard to read but at least his father let go after a few seconds of longer study.

 

“Go lie down. I'll fix you something else to eat when you get up again.”

 

_And then we'll talk._ Shawn heard it in his head more like a threat than a promise and he was realizing the longer he was forced to wait for that conversation the worse it would become. When not applying the sharp side of the sword, Henry liked to wait out on the sidelines while his opponents smashed themselves against the bars of their cage. Let them pour off all their anger and denial against metal and brick – make them just pliable enough that a few terse words would loosen what hours of yelling never could.

 

Without more than a tip of his hand in answer, Shawn held the wall with one hand and the cold bottle of water against his belly with the other, each upward step pulling a shiver of pain from his lips. If his father noticed he didn't say, but he didn't leave the foot of the stairs until Shawn turned the corner towards his room.

 

New sheets on the bed. He hadn't been back in his room since the night he'd been forced to drag Yang into that little sanctum of innocence. A stretch, maybe, given the adolescent thoughts that had bubbled under those sheets through his teen years – but innocent enough for a kid who didn't know he had his own personal set of serial killer stalkers. Well, one killer and one wannabe. She'd killed _for_ him, though, so he supposed that counted for something.

 

Nausea lurched again but Shawn held off the painful heaves; hand clapped over his lips.

 

He shed his shoes – then nearly tore the wreck of his remaining clothing from his body – aching to have it off of his skin; sickened with revulsion at its touch. It wasn't sleep he wanted, anymore, either.

 

Tugging a sheet from his bed, he wrapped it around himself and made for the bathroom next door.

 

Toothpaste and toothbrush; Henry always kept spares, these days, never knowing when his home would become a haven for downtrodden detectives or a safe house for the falsely (or otherwise) accused. Scrubbing to a foam lather at his teeth while the shower heated, Shawn had to keep one hand braced on the counter the entire time; his balance precarious as the drugs really started to take hold. But this couldn't wait.

 

The sheet fell off of him in a stiff fold, a corner sneaking into the shower with him when it caught on his toe. Kicking out the clinging cotton, the first object he filled his hand with was the exfoliating scrub with the delicate scent of... marionberry? Dad and his pie-filling soaps; no surprise. It was the skin peeling beads Shawn was after, however, more than the somewhat sharp tang of fake pastry.

 

Working from hairline down and back up again, he continued to refill his palm, barely noting as the nearly full bottle slowly worked down past the midway point.

 

He wasn't getting clean. Even as he scoured hard enough to defeat the benefit of his pain meds, Shawn couldn't stop himself from squirting more lather into his hands and scrubbing that much more desperately. Bruised skin flushed red under his nails, then broke – short scratches overlapping and adding a throat jagging sting but still he couldn't let it be. He'd peel himself raw if that's what it took.

 

He choked through that first sob as his hand brushed over his hip again.

 

_~_

 

_Her hand slid across his skin, barely denting, as though he were made of tissue. He struggled to see her face. Struggled to get any words out past a mouth that had turned traitor. He had to hear himself to know he was there. So that she'd know he was there._

 

“ _Please... please, stop...”_

 

_Blue eyes... pale as aquamarine. She smiled._

 

_Her lips moved; fingers curling over his shoulders._

 

“ _Oh Shawn, honey, don't worry... I'll be so good to you, I promise...”_

 

_~_

 

_His feet were miles below; weird, giant strides as she guided him into the bathroom. His face felt punched and hot. She had to hold him up just to manage this one task and it burned all through his body. She washed and rinsed his hands before leading him back._

 

_~_

 

_Awake again, there was pain this time. Hands clamped around his wrists and so much hurt! He made a noise, a cry, and her fingers fluttered over his lips – shushing him. “It's okay... shh... you're okay, sweetheart...”_

 

_~_

 

_She was gasping – shaking – and it was over, then. She would rest, and he'd gather himself into an unused corner and shut down for a time. Forget for a time._

 

_But then her hand was there – between them; touching him. “Don't worry, I haven't forgotten you...” Her legs clamped tight around him, holding him pinned as a violent lurch crushed through his belly._

 

_Ice water chilled through his hairline – down his throat._

 

_She kissed the paths it carved._

 

_~_

 

_Her fingers tickled up and down his belly, tracing out the shapes of muscles he'd actually been working to define in the last several months. She was close enough to his side to lean in and kiss his hip. His body flinched but the fog rolled across him – making everything gray._

 

“ _I love you.” Her voice barely a hush._

 

_~_

 

The carpet had been orange. Circa 1975, the place must have been hopping during the disco era. Furniture not far from that bygone decade – brightly colored plastic chairs and, good God, was that a pleather beanbag in the corner? Browsing inner shelves, clue searching, he hadn't expect the stumble of her body against his, _“what's a nice guy like you doing in a dirty mind like this?”_ Casual and light; she giggled and flushed at her slightly inebriated come-on. He was still misty on how they'd made it from the bar to her rental to the 'rent by the hour' establishment. Not a place he'd have chosen on his worst night regardless the state of his wallet but, then, he wasn't paying for the place and it was her fear making the decisions. Though, maybe not just fear and he eased away from her, stumbling a little, himself, before proximity could imply anything other than professional interest.

 

Like, he got it. He could easily rate the top 100 of sexiest men alive. Possibly even top 50... in the state of California and surrounding boroughs. Add to that already compelling aspect the whole psychic detective thing, and his natural charm; what woman _wouldn't_ find him attractive? Still, he was a man with one heart and that heart was completely enveloped by a badass with soft lips and a loaded gun – plus a smidgen of a jealous streak.

 

Okay, how long had he been pondering all of that?

 

But then he decided he didn't really care – rubbing his belly at the tiny discomfort prodding in his gut.

 

A once over of the room while her jacket had draped on the back of a chair. Ooo, Pay-Per-View! Maybe he could talk her into Chipmunks the Squeakquel... He rubbed a shaky hand over his face.

 

Too many shots before he'd arrived on the scene. It was the explanation jerking through his head when she'd thudded against his spine – enough rough force to shove him to the mattress. The sticky unwashed mattress no doubt loaded with a cornucopia of cooties (thank you Gus for that word of the day).

 

He was on his belly, mouthful of dusty sheets between his lips, _gross_ , when her hands slid around his chest.

 

“Woah, hey, I...” But whatever self-help he was trying to bring to the table just wasn't there. She was stronger than she looked. A few inched on him in height, but he had about fifty pounds over her and still she flipped him like a stack of blueberry waffles. Easier to breathe but the brain tripping wasn't improved just because he could see the ceiling. The square fixture covering the bulb was cracked.

 

By the end of three days, he'd be hating the sight of it.

 

His nervous smile at her grin above him was a reflex he couldn't control. Something odd about her eyes.

 

_Icy... so blue..._

 

“You 'kay?” How much cotton had he eaten that night anyhow?

 

“I'm, fiiiiine....” And really working her Julie Newmar Catwoman purr. Purr followed up by wet assault to the lower half of his face.

 

“Wha-re'- _Mmph_ , what are you do- _mmph_...” Mashing lips against his crushed up and smeared his growing from curious to alarmed question. Smacking sound as she released him, her body a soup pour over his chest though her limbs were rigid – jackknifing beneath his clothes.

 

“Wait-” He laughed.

 

_He laughed._

 

But the laugh pitched into a yelp as uncomfortable touch became intrusive violation. Flushing a gleaming red, Shawn grasped at her wrists – roughness he loathed to use now he begged for to save him this humiliation. But the strength that hadn't been there to roll him upright was still absent now as her smooth skin slipped away from his grasp. His jaw gaped wide as his jeans skinned down his thighs. _What in the hell!?_

 

They were working a case! Something had gone wrong with that but he was sure that's what they were supposed to be doing! She just needed a reminder!

 

“Huzz...band...” Words tanking on him with his strength, he found he could barely push syllables past lips that she immediately covered with hers.

 

She was careful with the buttons on his shirt. He noticed that. She just pushed it up to his shoulders before licking across his chest.

 

He understood now, in pieces. A deeper part of him knew what was happening but tore away from it before it could be real. He wasn't ready for real. Not this sort of real. No, no, no...

 

He made fists, somehow.

 

Somehow he even swung one, and the dull clip against her chin, though it barely turned her head, dusted the only anger in her eyes that he ever saw that whole weekend.

 

“Shawn, stop it!” Stiffened above him, the flat of her hand struck his cheek hard, corrective. His head remained turned towards the pillow while she watched him; his face hot with humiliation. After a few seconds, she stroked the red mark with her fingertips. Her nails skimmed through his hair.

 

“I need you to be nice for me. Just be nice for me, Shawn...”

 

His throat was bobbing as he tried to swallow. He couldn't lie through the fear, now. Yeah – fear. Like throat closing limb trembling teeth chattering fear. Real had crept up from behind and sandbagged him.

 

But, right up until she yanked down his boxers, he'd thought he could still escape.

 

Right up until her lower body was bared and pressing down to his belly, he'd thought it would be okay.

 

Right until she moved to cover him – pushed onto him...

 

A double shudder ripped from his chest. His eyes stared up at her. The bed rocked beneath him. No, not real... not real... _not real... not real..._

 

He must have spoken – cried... because a tapping touch, one he'd feel many, many times, soothed over his lips.

 

“It's okay... Oh, darling, it's okay. I'm here...”

 

And then everything; everything was real. God it was all real; all happening...

 

But she only soothed his pleas, shushing sounds through his pain.

 

And let the pillow soak the tears beneath his head.

 

~

 

Down to the floor, legs already shaky, Shawn hadn't been able to support his horror, too. What had been shadows before were now full color – blasting at his eyes and inescapable. He felt her body crushing against his, her mouth had been everywhere, sucking against his flesh, biting furrows. Streams of water run-off no longer felt like a cleansing shower but the oily sweat that had soaked him through; hers and his mixing and grinding into his limbs. Sobs raked over to harsh and shredded tears of breath – explosions of air that ripped out his throat in uncontrollable convulsions at the hours and days that poured back through the sieve of his brain, larger chunks sticking behind, rotting and bold while smaller bits flooded past. All of them ripe and fetid.

 

She was raping him.

 

And not once, but countless times – he no longer knew how many. He didn't know... He could taste her in his sinuses, the thick perfume she wore like a sap that poured into his throat when she pushed her tongue inside his mouth – forced him open. Whispers of love and devotion while she forced again; her body on his; pleasing herself with him. There had been a piece of him that had broken away from it – a young piece with freckles and clutching a borrowed badge. Curled ball, tight and shivering, for once allowed to find sanctuary in his parent's bed. Imaginary child clung to imaginary father as he was torn apart.

 

Drug weak was no excuse, he was stronger than her! She hadn't even threatened him!

 

“ _I love you so much...”_

 

That last time, cupping his cheek and kissing his lips. She'd made a promise he hadn't remembered until now; the four walls of the shower suddenly flimsy under a spreading black stain.

 

She wanted him.

 

And she was never letting him go.

  


 


	4. Reply Hazy, Try Again

 

Juliet had tried calling again that morning. Shawn's thumb had moved across her name on his phone, back and forth while he'd clicked through any million conversation starter's between them. Any million that wouldn't end in her calling him a lowlife boyfriend for not even bothering to contact her after three missing days and an additional two in lost and found. Gus had talked to her though. And dad. And Shawn had heard her voice through his bedroom door when she'd gone through the cycles of cajoling, pleading, and demanding.

 

He'd been waiting for her to bash the door down – he knew she had the shoulders for it after many lost tussles for control of the remote. But she'd never quite crossed that line. He'd been... disappointed.

 

But if she had, what then? Even with slivers of wood falling from her suit, could he have managed to even look at her? Dredging up seventh grade English class he was sure there was some sort of red letter burned into his skin somewhere highly visible. One look and she'd have known what he was.

 

Misdirection had bought him an extra day alone. Jules thought he was with with Gus. Henry thought he was taking his bike to Ventura to see some small band play at some off-label dive. Gus thought he was spending the evening with Jules...

 

He kept his lights off and his bike parked behind the office, not in any mood to cram into his newish place. Fluff and Fold a fond and soapy memory, his new digs were even smaller. Edna's Pastry Palace had closed for renovations over the fall and Shawn had gotten free rent in exchange for simply hanging around the place and offering the appearance of guard duty. Besides, it smelled like raspberry cobbler and every couple weeks Edna herself dropped off a small basket of flaky goodness to her “adorable young tenant”. Though she'd stepped up production when the “lovely lady friend” had become a more regular feature of the pseudo apartment.

 

Both of Shawn's grandmothers had died when he was still young but Edna had quickly begun to fill that role for him in the last few months. He hadn't even realized what he'd been missing, but the regular hand outs of sweets and old lady kisses on the cheek had become something to look forward to. Would he flinch from even _her_ now? Would he hurt her by pulling away?

 

She was as sweet as her confections, if a little senile after the death of two husbands and a course of pneumonia last year. She sometimes seemed to think Shawn actually was her grandchild though she'd never had children herself. He couldn't stand the idea of her seeing him the way he was now. He felt as though just being near her would be enough to tip her over the edge. She didn't need that threat to her health.

 

And honestly, Shawn just wasn't willing to have her view of him change. In so many ways it was like she was innocent and he was dark now... tainted. He could kill her with his sort of darkness. Better if he stayed away.

 

Bills had stacked up on his desk though why Gus bothered laying them out for him to paw through was beyond him. They both knew Gus was the writer of checks and receiver of paper cuts when it came to utilities and rent. Shawn didn't even know his bank account number. The one box of checks Gus had ordered for him over five years ago were still sitting in the second drawer on the left side and fighting for space between the bag of Twizzlers and a collection of sticky wall crawler toys. They'd instantly lost any interest for him when Gus hadn't bothered to order the “Wrestling's All Stars” set.

 

He'd planned to watch TV as a distraction. He was completely prepared too. Slouched on the sofa, remote in his left hand, bowl of Oreo infused trail mix on the cushion beside him, cell phone on the arm just in case he actually decided to answer it that day. But for the past half hour the television had remained off, the trail mix uneaten, the remote slowly slipping through his lax fingers. He'd been fighting with nodding off and had felt the drag of gravity on his skull and eyelids since plopping down for afternoon sitcoms.

 

He hadn't slept for nearly two days. He couldn't. When he closed his eyes...

 

_She was jerking above him, shuddering around him; gasping loud moans as her body clenched in orgasm. Droplets of sweat clung to the span of skin between her breasts. The fair hairs on her arms stood up as though the heat shimmering off their bodies had carried them erect. He shuddered as well, though it wasn't from arousal. He struggled just to breathe; panting in rapid gulps of air. And then her fingers moved down between them, ensuring that he would climax with her, within her; grasping him so tightly that when he cried out, it wasn't from pleasure, but clawing pain..._

 

An involuntary jerk sent the remote to the floor, knocking free the back and springing the batteries from their prison – one of them rolling across the floor to add to the garbage holed up under the couch. Nausea always joined him for the memories – visions he had no control over as they played before him like a movie only he could see. It terrified him that one of these... _episodes_... could happen anywhere. While eating dinner with his father, or while riding his bike...

 

He'd been drinking gallons of coffee and can after can of Jolt cola even though the stuff left him with a sticky sort of gut rot. He'd even resorted to the oversized cans of Rock Star in spite of the fact that Gus had actually forbidden him from drinking the stuff after Shawn had used it too many times to get him through his tougher cases and paying the price afterward with mind-blowing migraines. He would rather puke up every tasty tidbit he'd ever swallowed than face that hotel room again.

 

He needed to stop staring at the blank TV screen. By not providing outside entertainment, he was giving his brain too much opportunity to basically play dodgeball on a busy freeway. Why his mind felt it amusing to torture him, he didn't know. The only time he became this obsessive was when he was digging for clues. Well whatever mystery surrounded this little event, it could damn well stay a mystery. He didn't care. He was going to allow himself this one week to pout and then he was moving on. There was no reason to believe this past weekend would have any more long term effects on him than getting shot had. A few nightmares, maybe an unplanned visit to his dad's house to talk around what was bothering him while plundering the fridge for snacks, and he'd be over it. It had done the trick last time and it would work this time too.

 

~

 

 

Henry knew a lost cause and after the sixth time cycling through that obnoxious message, _real professional, kid_ , he gave up. Shawn wasn't going to answer and no amount of message leaving would change that. He'd still refused to talk to the cops about whatever he'd gone through in spite of Henry pressuring him to do so. If his son wasn't willing to speak to him, there was still a chance he might talk to someone at the SBPD. Unless... Whatever his worries, part of Henry suspected that the case Shawn was working required methods of investigation less than by the book. Certainly wouldn't be the first time and heaven forbid Shawn jeopardize his career as a professional fraud. Most likely he'd done something stupid – gone to dig up information on the ex husband of his client and had gotten smacked around for his trouble. He was lucky he hadn't been killed...

 

_How many times has Shawn been roughed up during an investigation? Quite a few, right? When was the last time he broke down into tears because of it? Even after all those times facing down Yin and Yang, did you ever see him shed so much as a single tear? There's something more going on here, Henry Spencer, and you'd damn well better open your eyes!_

 

Madeline's voice had a way of breaking into his personal thoughts and offering her opinions. Most often when their son was involved. And he knew that ignoring his mental version of her was about as effective as ignoring the woman herself when she was standing in the room with him. She was one of only a few people capable of giving him a dressing down and generating a dose of shame in the process.

 

His gut instinct, dressed suspiciously as his ex wife, couldn't be ignored any longer. And maybe a part of that was due to the fact that he'd been put in charge of his son's life, not only as a father, but now as the kid's boss. He didn't have the luxury, anymore, of allowing Shawn to do whatever the hell he wanted. He had responsibilities here that went beyond just parenting. And there was a sting of guilt that he was failing with that one too.

 

Shawn didn't want to answer his phone? Fine, then Henry would track him down to wherever he'd holed up. The claim that he'd ridden to Ventura on some whim was such a transparent bluff, Henry was surprised that Shawn had managed to tell him that little lie without choking on it. Still, the fact that he'd gone out of his way to craft a scenario was, in many ways, a positive sign. If Shawn had planned to run away from whatever was eating at him, he wouldn't have said a word. He'd have simply vanished.

 

So now it came down to possible hideouts. His apartment was instantly weeded out. Too easy. Besides, Shawn had never spent time at any of his various temporary homes. They were, at best, storage units for his collection of memorabilia and few pieces of furniture. He wouldn't be with Gus either since it was obvious he was avoiding everyone. Same with Detective O'Hara's place. The remaining options came down to Tom Blair's Pub and the Psych office. It didn't even take deductive reasoning to decide between the two options.

 

Fifteen minutes of driving brought him to Psych. No sign of the bike and the place was dark but that was meaningless. He was actually impressed that the door was locked – some of his lectures about securing the office must have finally sunk in. He knocked, waiting a few moments before knocking again. “Shawn, open the door!”

 

Nothing but the sound of waves behind him and the tickle of breeze through his thin hair. Far off traffic carried a soft rumble but even the street behind him was empty. The atmosphere of desolation was complete. Henry glared at the door. Once again his fist beat against the painted wood. “Dammit Shawn, I am more than willing to break a window!”

 

Now there was both movement and vindication as the shade flipped down just long enough for him to catch a pair of glowering eyes before the latch flipped. Shawn didn't open the door for him so Henry entered under his own power.

 

“I believe you drilled into me the consequences of breaking and entering.” His son grumbled as he headed through the main office towards his desk, flopping down in his chair and causing the well used springs to squeak.

 

Henry pulled Gus's chair out from behind the other desk and sat down, noting the lack of a squeak from the well cared for piece of furniture. “Funny how that never stopped you from entering homes where you hadn't been invited.”

 

“Funny how my doing so caught the bad guys and has even gotten me a pay check.”

 

Henry knew what would happen if he continued this conversation – if he pointed out the more frequent number of times that Shawn's cocky disregard for protocol had gotten him into hot water, had threatened his life, had gotten him shot... But picking a fight hadn't been the reason for tracking down his son and if he pushed this, he'd undermine the entire reason for doing this in the first place. Time enough for fights once the truth was out anyhow, for now he just needed to figure out what that truth _was_.

 

“You made a promise to me, Shawn.”

 

A twitch of a frown while eyebrows tweaked into an expression of sarcasm. “Really? What promise was that? Clean the gutters? Rent “Red” for our next movie night so you can pick up tips, or was it that promise to get my tricycle out of the driveway, cause I think the statute of limitation is up on that one.”

 

“Oh, knock it off for God's sake.” _Not_ fighting was clearly going to strain every sinew in his left hand as he clamped it on the arm of his chair, the other rubbing over the top of his head. “I want to know what happened this weekend. I'm not leaving here until you spill.”

 

Shawn was out of his chair in seconds. “Perfect! You stay, I'll leave. Oh, and don't forget to lock up, 'kay? Gus has been a total pill about that lately. Something about goblins sneaking in late at night to steal his Munch'ems.”

 

“Shawn- Shawn!” Shawn made it to the door, hand on the knob before Henry was able to stand and dart after him, getting ahold of his elbow as Shawn was just pulling it open. In that second of contact, Shawn tore away from him a whirled, holding both hands in front of Henry's chest to keep him back.

 

“Don't touch me.” Venom made his voice shake as he glared at his father and Henry stared back in shock. It took a second to dig up any sort of reply to the simmer directed at him, a look he'd last seen through the bars of the holding cell where he'd placed his son after stealing a neighbor's car. A look that was the precursor to Shawn telling him exactly how much he hated his old man.

 

Well Shawn wasn't getting a chance to replay that sickening family history.

 

“Dammit Shawn, now you are going to tell me what the hell is going on!” Sure, perfect way to waylay that emotion. Start off with yelling – maybe toss in some threats of physical violence. Given the kid's reaction he clearly expected it.

 

Dragging his voice down to a register rarely needed, one meant to gain trust that surely they should have had between them by now and going the extra measure of taking a step back, Henry rubbed both of his hands over his face and waited for some of the wariness to ebb. To see that Shawn was actually staying put rather than bolting for parts unknown. Been there done that, had the postcards.

 

“Tell me. Tell me why you disappear on a Thursday night only to turn up Sunday afternoon at some pay by the hour dive. Tell me why I had to be called to a hospital only to be told nothing about your condition or what the hell you'd been doing there in the first place, other than some alleged client called you in on a stalking case!” No good – never could keep a mellow tone with his son when the kid clammed up. Fighting when both sides were evenly matched was one thing but dragging information from Shawn when he'd zipped up tighter than a member of the mob with a sword actively dangling over his head was something Henry couldn't stomach for even a second.

 

“Talk, Shawn! Now!”

 

“I blew it, dad!! Okay? Happy?” Shoving back into the room hard enough to knock Henry off his footing, Shawn threw himself down on the couch in front of the plasma, ignoring the throw pillows that spilled to the floor and grasping handfuls of hair as he leaned forward over his knees.

 

Henry pushed the inch of open door shut into its frame again and moved to one of the heavy chairs facing his son. Arms folded, he leaned back. “What happened?”

 

Breathing only for a few moments, a shaky sniff; emotion that was unexpected over just a case gone bad, Henry withheld further prodding and prepared to do what didn't come easily to either one of them. He listened.

 

He'd started to think the delicate method was a wash when Shawn's voice started to whisper up from his still hunched form. And though the developing story brought first surprise, followed by something like acid reflux and a burn of anger laden disappointment through his gut, Henry held himself in check and let the kid speak. Though by the end, he was fairly certain he'd dug a few holes in the plushy chair arm clutched in his grip.

 

Her name was Rhonda; yeah, he'd picked that up from the clipped conversation a few nights ago. They'd met at a bar chosen by the client. Shawn had started out with something light while Rhonda hadn't had any problem knocking back the heavier stuff. She'd talked about her ex and Shawn insisted that she call the cops. Henry managed not to snort during that part of the recitation, choosing to grip the chair more tightly and keep his opinions for the end.

 

Sometime during the night, Shawn had forgotten himself and had a beer. Then another. Later, without the hum of anger tightening the back of his neck, Henry would be able to admit that this wasn't like his son. The few times he'd seen his son drunk, Shawn either had a ride in place or wasn't planning on going anywhere.

 

Rhonda had suggested they go somewhere safer. But no, not the station, but some classless wreck of a motel, probably teeming with more cockroaches and lice than clientele.

 

And that was where Shawn apparently “screwed up.”

 

“I... we...” Spitting it out seemed like his son was trying to cough out a bowling ball. Henry held tight to the chair and spoke the few words he would say the rest of that evening.

 

“Just tell me, Shawn.”

 

“We... we had schez...” The last word was mushed with Shawn's hand conveniently wiping over his lips but Henry had read enough of these sorts of confessions that he no longer needed to demand clarification.

 

“What!? Jesus, what the hell were you thinking?!”

 

“I didn't wa-mean to!! It happened! We stayed together all weekend... I dunno. I don't know what... we-I just... And then she left. And... Dad, I don't know what to do!” Shawn finally looked up then, eyes wet and the agonized expression finally making sense. Yeah, he'd screwed up all right. God, had he screwed up. And before he knew it, Henry was shaking his head and chuckling, though there was no laughter in it. Bad enough Shawn break a cardinal trust with his client by having SEX with her, but doing so while plastered drunk besides? And on top of that, he'd recently begun dating a detective at the SBPD; a woman fighting her own demons from the previous year and for some unexplainable reason had fallen for his son.

 

“You're right kid. You blew this. Big time. Bad enough you don't even get her the help she came to you for but you SLEPT WITH HER!? Do you have any idea what you've done to this woman who was in a fragile state to begin with?” Outrage poured out of him in a shout he simply couldn't contain any longer – his hands shaking at the stumbled admission of total idiocy. “I've seen you pull some stunts kid but this... there isn't even a category for this one!” He turned away from the betrayed hurt – what Shawn had done was a betrayal that didn't even register in the same category as the little twist in his chest that daddy wasn't offering to pick up after him and kiss it better. Henry hadn't felt something this dark in his chest in over fifteen years and he'd truly thought he never would again. They weren't fixed – never would be. But they had made some patches that had held strong now for a very long time. But this...

 

And suddenly it felt as though the room was too small. Shoving from his chair, Henry walked towards the main window, the backward shadow of the marquee painted on its surface branding across his shirt like a mockery. He felt his chin shaking and it was all the strength within him holding him back from unleashing on the younger man still clutching himself in a ball behind him. Shawn had dug himself a very deep hole with this and while Henry felt a hurt for what his son was gong though, it wasn't enough to overcome what Shawn had done. And if they were to survive to talk about this another day, Henry needed to leave. Now.

 

Not even glancing back, he dug his keys from his pocket and walked out; careful to close the door so it wouldn't rattle the glass. Tomorrow would be too soon but maybe in a couple of days. Thursday would be enough time. Yeah, Thursday. And maybe by then, he wouldn't feel the urgent need to strangle his son.

 

 

~

 

 

Shawn stared at the door for nearly five minutes after his dad had walked out. It wasn't what he'd meant to say. Not even close. But any other option wasn't an option at all. He... he couldn't. He couldn't even make it real yet in spite of the memories that burst all new and shiny every little while. Little pops of humiliation and self disgust... Pain. If his father acted like this over the suggestion of a three day tryst, how much worse would it be if he knew his son had let himself be...

 

No! No matter what; no matter how much this might hurt it was better than spilling _that_. His dad would be pissed for a while. Maybe for a long while. But he'd get over it. He would be ashamed of what Shawn had done but he wouldn't be humiliated by what his son had _let_ happen without his control. It was better like this. This was a hurt Shawn could actually live with. He'd done it before. He knew the steps to this dance.

 

Maybe he'd even head out of town for a few days – a little mini road trip to clear his head. He wasn't running anywhere, but he couldn't hang around Santa Barbara right now. Not with all this pressure throbbing in his head. Not with his dad looking at him that way.

 

Just a few days. He'd pack a bag and a couple of sandwiches and he could be in LA in less than a day. He'd call Gus once he got there and make sure he kept an eye on the office – toss a temporarily closed sign over the knob, whatever.

 

Jules...

 

Shawn scrubbed at his eyes. He hadn't even seen her since getting out of the hospital. Avoiding her calls, her attempts to visit... He wasn't doing right by her and she deserved so much... so, so much more from him. But what did he have to offer her right now? If she tried to hug him and he pulled away it would shatter them both. He just couldn't hurt her like that. Not when he lov...

 

Scrubbing more sniffles, Shawn finally pushed away from the couch, feeling the stabs of pain all through his back. He'd forgotten his medication and was feeling it now with every move. Not just his back either. Digging the prescription bottle from his pocket, he eyed the remaining pills. No refill offered either so once they were gone he'd either need to make another appointment or settle for over the counter. Well he'd never been a big fan of either option but less attention was the goal this time. Swallowing a white tablet and getting a tap water chaser from the kitchen, Shawn pulled free his keys and snagged his helmet as he headed out the door. His dad's truck was long gone but he'd had no expectations of the old man waiting around to apologize or even dig for a deeper truth. Why dig when the story made so much sense? When it could fit with what you often expected from a child that could never quite keep himself out of trouble? Typical Shawn. Only you, Shawn. You've disappointed me, kid.

 

Ten minutes had him pulling to a stop in front of the little bakery. The meds still hadn't kicked in quite yet and the ride hadn't done any wonders for his stiff back but by the time he'd packed, Shawn figured the single dose would be working its time release magic.

 

He smelled flakey sweetness when he opened the door and saw the white box sitting on the glass counter when he set his helmet on the chair by the window. A note was taped to the top.

 

_Please call me._

_I miss you._

_I love you._

 

_J._

 

She wasn't angry, not yet. But he felt like the biggest ass in the world for letting her worry. Four glazed mixed berry tarts sat in a bed of yellow tissue. Probably made that afternoon.

 

He had to call her. He owed her something. Anything to make up for what he was doing to her.

 

And he missed her too – so much.

 

He closed the box again and laid the note beside it on the heavy glass. Digging out his cell, he scrolled to her name and prepared to dial when a soft knock rapped the still open door at his back. Shawn's eyes closed for just a second; not prepared for a face to face by any means. But he had to do this... if there was any chance of going forward after everything.

 

He could do this.

 

He would.

 

Slowly turning, he was lifting the box off the counter when a light, feminine voice, spoke from the threshold.

 

“Is this a bad time?”

 

The box of tarts fumbled through numb fingers, tumbling out of the box and leaving a swath of broken crust and spilled gooey compote all over the rug.

 

Stepping into the room, Rhonda kicked the door shut behind her with her heel.

 

“Did you miss me?”


	5. Close Your Eyes Against the Rain

 

Kicking himself was an emotion Henry had developed into a real skill when it regarded his son, though self-recrimination for ill thought words was not so easily expressed. How many thousands of times had he tried to drill into Shawn the lesson about thinking before acting? Well, thinking before speaking was equally if not sometimes more important and was also something with which they excelled in failing.

 

Driving with the window down had helped a little. But there was so much anger still pumping through his blood about this whole mess he knew better than to assume it was any sort of a fix. He just couldn't believe what Shawn had done! Sure, his kid could be a world class bonehead but this was an excessive display of idiocy far beyond the typical act. The only thing that came close was that move he'd pulled with an unexploded bomb a couple of years ago – the verbal explosion stemming from that more than making up for the physical one they'd avoided by pure stupid luck.

 

_Turn the truck around, Henry._

 

He ignored her, pressing down on the gas enough to make it through the next yellow light. Maddie wasn't there to play mediator between himself and his son no matter how frequently she tried to play that role in his head. And in the last few days she's been playing it hard. A couple of times he'd even picked up the phone to talk to the real deal about this whole mess before dropping in back to the cradle again. Discussing their son could be complicated at times when it was the typical and well hashed conflicts; but throwing in Shawn's sex life – God... He shuddered just thinking about it.

 

_You aren't looking hard enough!_

 

How many times had he said those same words to his son, or some variation of it? To this day Shawn still opened his cereal boxes from the bottom whether or not they contained a prize. The kid was anything if not obsessive at times.

 

_Call him. Just call him._

 

He hated that she was right. And it wasn't just that her imaginary voice was wearing him down. Were she there she'd be saying the same thing; louder and no doubt with a lot more pleading. They may not be a complete family anymore but they would always be mother, father, and son and the last thing they wanted to cause one another was pain. Shawn might quote sources that would say differently but then he did enjoy creating drama wherever he could. But the truth always existed beneath the core.

 

Turning into his driveway, Henry set the truck in park and turned off the engine; though he pulled free his cell before exiting the vehicle.

 

Five rings before going to voicemail, no surprise. He sighed from his gut, already feeling a blend of regret on all sides of this call. Shawn always did better with a few days between their blow ups. They both did. Yet Henry was choosing to bully past comfortable and force the issue while they were still raw.

 

But for that endless voice hammering in his head...

 

He dialed again.

 

 

~

 

 

Their bodies heaved together in wild gasps – exhausted and spent. Shawn stared up at the ceiling as he fought against the tears; struggling not to lose himself in the panic that fluttered in his throat. Rhonda wasn't heavy but her weight on his body felt crushing.

 

After some moments of hard breaths, the last of them laced with puffs of humor and appreciation, Rhonda slid to the right and curled her body against his side. Her hand played over his chest while she smiled at him. Shawn turned away and focused on his American Werewolf in London poster on the wall.

 

“That was incredible.” She murmured against his skin.

 

Shawn closed his eyes. He could feel his throat trying to close and he struggled to keep from breaking. But already a chill was spreading through his limbs. Before, he'd been hardly aware of what was happening – building memories while trapped in a fogged paralysis. He'd had no control of his body or what she chose to do with it.

 

There were no excuses this time.

 

“ _I hadn't wanted to do it so soon after we'd... you know. I know it's not any way to start a relationship, but I had to be certain you wouldn't back out. We made a contract that night... a bond. I couldn't risk losing you...”_

 

“Thank you so much, Shawn. You were wonderful!” Her fingertip traced up the scar on his chest and he sucked in a staggered gasp. He needed to focus! He needed to get her away from him, now!

 

“ _I went to the closest hospital and... I hope you can forgive me, sweetheart, but I just... well I had to tell them I'd been... well, raped. I went through it all. For you. Pictures, swabs, the whole story. They were very sympathetic too! They offered to do whatever it took to make certain I'd be alright. They were very insistent about knowing who had done this to me but all I told them was that he was someone working in a field of law enforcement. That was enough to imply that I didn't think they'd believe me. I have their card though – anytime I'm willing to talk about it.”_

 

“I love you...”

 

She kissed his chest before lifting herself higher. Shawn flinched, clenching fists and stiffening like a board as her lips pressed to his cheek. _Please be done – please, please, please..._

 

“ _They have the DNA from the tests they ran, but I didn't say who had done it! I wouldn't do that unless I had no choice! I told them I wasn't ready to press charges so they can only hold the DNA for now.”_

 

She lifted the edge of his sheet and wiped at the sweat on his chest. “Oh, this isn't going to do. Just wait here, okay, baby?”

 

She lifted off the bed. Shawn felt himself shivering with the screaming urge to bolt, but he didn't dare.

 

“ _This is where I feel very bad, but, Shawn, I just had no choice. I know how men are and as hard as this was for me, it was the only way. And you know t_ _hey'll never take your word over mine. A sobbing victim; devastated by how the police consultant she'd gone to for help had, instead, forced her into a sleazy motel room and raped her for days. What do you think would happen to your career? To your life? Baby, they won't think twice about putting you away. And don't think for a second I take any pleasure from being forced to do that. I've been burned so many times in the past and I could not bear to risk that happening with you. You're too special.”_

 

She returned with a damp cloth and began to clean him. Shawn managed to pull himself together, though not enough to control the tremors as the warm towel passed over his belly and groin. He was terrified she might want to... again... and he... he just couldn't...

 

“ _And I know you don't want to lose everything if we were to break up because of a trivial spat. I guess it's like a pre-marital contract. I need to know you're going to be there for me...”_

 

“I guess I'll let you take care of the sheets. I don't know where you do your laundry and it's getting late anyhow.” She was so casual as she looked around the room, standing among his things. She'd accidentally stepped in the spilled dessert earlier and she used the soiled cloth to wipe off her foot. “I need to get up early for an appointment tomorrow so I should probably go.”

 

Shawn nearly sobbed at that reprieve. But he held it together, eyes back on the poster and jaw tight to keep his chin from shaking. He'd replayed every scene of that movie, along with a dozen other films, game shows, sitcoms; during the last four hours. _I don't think we need these this time!_ The thought, spoken in her excited whisper, almost unhinged him. He could feel hysteria trying to force itself out in a roar of laughter and he shook, trying not to let it free. She'd taunted him with the little blue stimulant before pushing him towards the bed; a relief that had only lasted until she'd begun to touch him, to prove how much he _hadn't_ needed them. And he'd felt himself start to die.

 

“I'll see you later?” She kissed his lips. The panic shifted back to terror and Shawn grasped the bedding in his fingers until she straightened again, dressed, and headed for the door.

 

“I'll stop by later this week, okay? I'll call to let you know when I'd like to see you again.”

 

And then she was out the door.

 

Before it latched into place, he'd already lost control of himself, panting in ragged whoops of air and curling his stiff and aching form into a ball.

 

He'd wanted to crawl from his own body. He was sick at what he'd done. He'd convinced himself he'd _had_ to do it but maybe the real issue is that he'd _wanted_ to.

 

Tears slid like oil drops down his face, streaming to soak the pillow. The tight band in his throat was choking him.

 

_If he closed his eyes he could do it – hand sliding down between them. He was just starting to imagine himself with Juliet when he suddenly snapped that from his mind again. He felt nauseous at making her any part of this, even to save him. He was on his own. But he could do it... with the right sort of touch, he could do it and then it would be over. He just had to let himself be numb. Pretend this was his choice. Pretend she wasn't stealing the last traces of his soul with every thrust of her hips._

 

He was shivering with cold. Freezing. His teeth had begun to chatter and he pulled the discarded blanket over his body as the whole bed shook with his trembling.

 

_His body jerked and above him she gasped – arching her back. After a few seconds, she lowered herself to his chest, giggling._

 

“ _Wow! Oh, Shawn just... wow!”_

 

_He had no expression. Nothing about that had been pleasurable. He felt only pain. Empty. Used up._

 

He was trapped. She was never going to leave him be and he was starting to think prison might just be the better option than the sentence she'd given him. Even beyond the creeping numbness, he could still feel the insectile crawl of loathing all through his middle. He hadn't aided in his own climax just once, but both times that she'd taken his body that evening. He'd just wanted to be done...

 

Sobbing panic blindsided him and took over everything else. It was no sense of release, but an agonizing crush of ribs and lungs. In seconds he started to hyperventilate but he couldn't stop it though he fought every shattered inhale speeding through his chest. He had to get out of there, now, but he couldn't even stand! Everything was quaking so hard and when he did manage to push up on his elbows the room torqued around him in a wavering spin. But he'd risk hitting the floor a few times if he could get away. Her version of later could be in ten minutes and with his time sense blown he was horrified that it could already be too late.

 

He made it to the edge of the mattress but couldn't make sense of how to escape to the floor. He ended up taking a nose dive and barely got his hands in place to take the brunt of his topple. Carpet burned his palms but the pain was a meaningless background sensation. The thought of a shower bloomed up through his belly but much as he ached to wash, he ached to run even more. Jeans, shirt, socks, he stared at the collection of garments for countless seconds trying to make sense of their order. He knew they had to get on his body; that he didn't have time for this, but he couldn't figure out what to do! He scrubbed away at the stream of tears wetting his cheeks and gulped repeatedly until finally the panicked gasps started to ebb. Socks. He could do socks!

 

Boxers followed and then jeans and shirt – buttons uneven with two missing midway down from having it torn from his body. She'd laughed when she'd done that – said she'd always wanted to do that after seeing it in a movie. There was a rip in the sleeve as well but it just didn't occur to him to get a fresh one from the display case that he'd modified into a dresser. By the time his shoes made it onto his feet his breathing had slowed enough that he probably wouldn't pass out. The little dots of fuzzy black at the edges of his sight had gone as well.

 

The passing urge to leave town earlier that evening was nothing like the howling scream that ripped across his mind now. Somewhere far – really far! North Dakota or Missouri – no, still too close. He still had his passport, he could get out of the country couldn't he? Even if she did file a report on him he'd be too far away and did they even bother to extradite rapists?

 

His movements were jerky and spastic, fingers numbed and stiff struggled to keep a grip as he dug out his phone only to immediately shove it back into his pocket, to then pull it free once more and slap it on the counter. His wallet he pawed through but found a distressing lack of cash. Thirty-three dollars and a few Canadian fivers wouldn't get him far with his gas tank already dipping past the halfway mark. Dad wouldn't be loaning him any cash soon and Gus would demand answers if he were asked to fork over more than fifty bucks at three in the morning. While ignorant of the tally of his bank account, Shawn knew a credit and or debit card was too easy to trace if the cops were set on his trail so he ripped them from his wallet and left them on the counter next to his phone.

 

He had no idea what he was doing.

 

The only thing in his head was escape but fear of trying to do even that was almost enough to choke him. She had his DNA and a finger pointed in his very general direction. But what if he went to someone for help? Dad was a no go, he'd not only burned that bridge but set fire to the villages surrounding it in a ten mile radius. Lassie? Yeah, he could just picture that conversation.

 

“ _You're telling me a woman half your size forced you to sleep with her? I just want to be clear before I lock someone away for their choice in regretful bed partners. Come back to me when there's an actual crime committed, Spencer. Maybe something believable like alien abduction.”_

 

Yeah, that sounded about right. And no way in hell would Jules... no. Not an option.

 

And what if... what if she really did follow through and file a report against him? Even with just the suggestion of him being an attacker hitting the papers would be enough to destroy everything he'd built. He'd never get another client and unlikely even the police department would ever be able to use him on a case again. And what about past cases? Would they be called into question too? And aside from the job – God, the job! Like that really was the issue! He couldn't care less about losing that to never feel her touch him again. But it wasn't just that! How far did he really think he could get if he ran? Would he be a fugitive then? How could he possibly explain himself? People who knew him would never believe his story so why the hell would a random cop in a random town?

 

What if he ended up in jail? He knew what happened to sexual predators there. A tiny part of him had felt it a justifiable punishment whenever he'd allowed his mind to drift to such dark subjects but now the idea was horrifying.

 

Was her torture worse than what he'd be subjected to there? He wasn't some hard case that had been through the system and knew how to handle himself. His one stint as a criminal had been an overnight stay in a private cell before mom had bailed him out the following day. He wasn't a tattooed muscle bound perp. He was a tenderized filet on a platter. He wouldn't stand a chance and by the end of his first week he'd be looking for a shiv just to ram it through his wrists.

 

He almost felt like doing that now. It was definitely a way out.

 

But it wasn't an option. It would never be an option.

 

His shaky legs weren't up to holding him steady any longer and he placed his back against the glass counter to slow his drift to the floor. Muscle twitches and jerks still played over his limbs and he hugged his arms around himself, desperate for some warmth.

 

A bag, half spilled with a change of clothes, sat on the floor across from him. He hadn't remembered packing that and it appeared his attempt had only been partially begun anyhow.

 

He couldn't stop cycling back towards escape while at the same time returning to the notion of arrest and incarceration. He hadn't realized that he had already been trapped until he'd lifted his head and seen the bars on all sides. What was he supposed to do? He'd already begged her repeatedly not to do this to him but she hadn't acted as though she'd heard his pleas. He couldn't go to his dad or Lassiter; he wouldn't go to Jules.

 

Gus.

 

He had to talk to Gus. Even if he didn’t say outright what was tearing at him, Gus would know what to do. He had to call Gus.

 

He didn't know where his phone was, a pocket search only finding lint and a couple of hard candies from the Chief's desk. He dug through his bag but he hadn't packed it in any of the various pockets. Struggling back on watery legs he swept his attention around the room in a wild scan until he finally saw the device on the same counter he'd been leaning against. He snatched it, dialing as soon as Gus's name appeared, and waited through five rings before a groggy and irritated voice greeted him on the other end.

 

“ _Shawn, this better be good.”_

 

Coughing out the tremble in his vocal chords, Shawn closed his eyes and dropped his forehead to his arm.

 

“Gus, buddy... I need some help...”

 

 

 

 


	6. Whispers in the Waves

 

Gus was forgetting the tone of voice, that had dredged him awake so very, very early that morning, by the time he pulled in front of the Psych office with two cups of coffee and a box of chocolate muffins from an all night convenience store. And like hell Shawn would be sharing any of that sweetness if he didn't explain himself within the next five minutes either.

 

The bike was parked out front when he pulled up but it looked as though Shawn hadn't bothered with the lights inside. So it was that sorta thing. Fallout from a fight, though it was a toss-up whether Gus preferred “disappointed dad” over “angry girlfriend”. At least he had some experience with the former. Actually, since they'd begun dating, Gus couldn't really remember a conflict between Juliet and Shawn. And regardless of what it did to his glucose levels pigging out on caramel, he'd had to admit the two of them were good for one another. He'd never seen Shawn with that look on his face before and it made something in his own chest sting in response. Not jealousy, not really. But more like something special in his own life was... missing.

 

“Shawn?” Door unlocked when he pushed inside, he expected some sort of whine or complaint when he moved through the office flipping on lights. But no half hunched being appeared before him to grumble about lateness before grabbing his share of the caffeine. Setting the coffee and muffins on the counter, Gus made his way through the back office where the plasma and TIVo sat in complete vulnerability to whomever chose to wander into the unsecured building.

 

“Shawn?” Louder now, more irritated, less concerned about exacerbating any throbbing migraines. Bathroom? So help him, if Shawn was upchucking a night spent at the bar...

 

But the bathroom was empty too – the only odor wafting from the shining interior being that of Hawaiian air fresheners. Shawn might hate them but Gus was convinced a well kept bathroom equalled happy clients. What client wanted to hire someone whose bathroom smelled like a boy's locker room after chili Friday?

 

The last places that remained unexamined were beneath the desks and in the closet. Well, there were also the lockers but Shawn wasn't skinny enough to fit inside them on his best day. Not that it hurt to check – just to be sure. It was about being thorough.

 

But no compressed best friend pulling a nerd stuffed in locker routine either. Shawn wasn't there. Gus pulled out his phone as he walked back towards the front door. He hadn't seen Shawn sitting outside when he'd pulled up, but still...

 

The outside bench was empty too. At a loss, Gus scanned the parking lot and then the street beyond – the random car passing by the only activity. Too early for anyone to be out, the sun was still hours from rising – a fact drilled home to Gus as a yawn shook out his chest and sprang sleep tears in his eyes. But because of that, when he looked farther beyond towards the beach, he almost immediately spotted the movement cut out in front of the waves.

 

Taking just a second to lock the door at his back, Gus gave the street a back and forth before jogging across towards the form wandering along the sand. Shawn was about fifty yards away but it was obvious there was something not right with his stride. He looked like he was struggling to move forward – stumbling – and once more Gus considered he might have spent a part of his evening at a bar. That meant whatever was eating at him was bad. Like, arrested by his father bad.

 

He was about thirty feet from his friend when Shawn's haphazard walk suddenly shifted. Puzzled first, Gus felt a spear of panic as the beach walk abruptly became wading as Shawn's body spilled left and he plunged into the waves. “Holy crap-SHAWN!” Bursting into a sprint, Gus winced as he entered the water after his friend, the icy feel of it compounded by the chilliness of the night.

 

Shawn had already traveled a good fifteen feet out, water up to his waist and the going exponentially slower as the tide sucked at their legs.

 

“Shawn, stop!” Reaching him just as the water rose mid-chest, Gus battled his footing to snag ahold of Shawn's sleeve and tug. The current and surf both competed to knock their feet out from under them as Gus started to pull his friend backward – relieved that Shawn wasn't fighting him but extremely worried that he wasn’t helping either, not acting as though he knew Gus was even there.

 

The next wave was the one that did it – a white capped beast that sprang up out of nowhere and swept over their heads. Gus yelped as his feet where knocked off the bed of sand and scooped up into the water – his hold on Shawn lost as they were tumbled through the waves. Gasping when his head broke the surface, eyes darted back and forth over the suddenly empty sea.

 

“Shawn! Shaaawn!” Panic roared hard now and he struggled back to his feet – body thrashing around as he searched the water for his friend. “God... Shawn don't do this!” Desperately hoping Shawn was just toying with him – instinct saying otherwise, Gus clutched the top of his head, looking, looking...

 

A sopping form broke the water's surface eight feet to the right and Gus lunged for it – getting a double handful of drenched shirt and yanking the body against his chest. Wrapping one arm around Shawn's chest, shaking out relief at the feel of sharp breaths pushing under his hand, he started to half carry his friend back towards shore.

 

They both dropped in the sand once they passed the hard packed stretch and toed into the softer grains higher up the beach. Gasping breaths were all they shared for nearly a minute – taking another five to simply lie on their backs and stare up at the sky. Gus could hear Shawn's teeth chattering and rolled to his side – taking in the dull red eyes and shivering body.

 

“Come on, let's get back to the office.”

 

He had a thousand things to say to his friend about all this, but it could wait until they got somewhere warmer. As he helped Shawn to his feet, still deeply troubled by the lack of response, he started them back towards the bungalow.

 

Once inside, door shut and Shawn seated in one of the overstuffed chairs beneath the main window, Gus made for the lockers. Several large towels were inside along with a couple quilts. He grabbed handfuls of both and returned to Shawn's side.

 

Though chilled, Gus had stopped shivering with the activity of getting inside and darting around the office. Shawn, though, had yet to stop shuddering – teeth chattering together and eyes still staring ahead. Both of them kept changes of clothes at the office – required after so many cases that had resulted in them taking dips in the ocean. Shawn wasn't going to get warm again just sitting there dripping.

 

“Shawn?”

 

It took way too long for his friend's eyes to track to his own. “Gus...” He sniffed and pulled his limbs into his body, barely managing to whisper. “Gus, I'm c-cold...”

 

Draping one of the towels around Shawn's shoulders, Gus began rubbing his arms. “We need to get you into dry clothes. Can you stand?”

 

Another long pause before Shawn nodded, though it took Gus actually pulling on his arms to get him out of the chair again. Handing his friend the quilt – more like pushing it into his arms and helping him wrap his arms around the soft mass – Gus hurried back to the lockers for a change of clothes. Gathering up the required garments, he returned, again, to Shawn's side only to find him standing in the exact same position – unmoved from the way he'd left him.

 

“Here, put these on.” He snapped his fingers to get eyes on him again. This was not good. The last time Shawn had even come close to this condition had been the night after he'd been shot – waking up concussed, disoriented, and high off his meds in the hospital. He was tempted to check Shawn's head for lumps. However, warm clothes would need to come first. Pulling the quilt out of Shawn's slack grip, Gus placed a hand on his bicep and guided him to the bathroom.

 

“Do you need hel-”

 

“No!” Shawn cut him off, almost panicked, and Gus backed away as his friend closed and locked the door. At least he seemed to be grasping speech again.

 

Needing his own set of dry garments Gus snagged pants, shirt, and boxers from his locker and made for the corner of the office furthest from the windows. Feeling a blush of self-consciousness, he dressed as quickly as he could – kicking his wet clothes into the corner.

 

Then, remembering their coffees, Gus headed to the kitchen. Cold. Of course. Dumping the contents of each into a couple of ceramic mugs, he stuck them in the microwave to heat. Shawn still hadn't appeared by the time the unit beeped so Gus returned to the bathroom and rapped softly on the door.

 

“Shawn, you okay?”

 

Another break of silence before the muffled reply. “I'm fine.”

 

Right. Sure. And Henry took up ballet on the weekends. “I've got a coffee and muffins.”

 

More hesitation and then, “I'll be out in a minute.”

 

Back to the kitchen for their extremely early breakfast, he was relieved that by the time he made it to the couch, the bathroom door opened and Shawn tumbled out – arms wrapped around himself. At least he was shivering less and it appeared he'd scrubbed the towel through his hair as the previously plastered coif was fluffed and no longer dripping.

 

Gus snatched the quilt from the arm of the chair where he'd left it and draped it over Shawn's shoulders before urging his friend to sit on the couch. The drop to the cushions was less than graceful and he didn't miss the wince or the soft gasp as Shawn touched down. Letting it be, he passed over one of the coffees, worried he'd have to help Shawn with that too. However, it looked like Shawn was managing that okay as he immediately began sipping the warmed liquid.

 

Gus snatched two muffins, setting one in front of Shawn who only glanced at it before flushing a little green around his lips. Probably swallowed too much ocean. Not suffering from that malady, Gus bit off a giant hunk of sweet carbs and began to chew.

 

When Gus was halfway through his muffin, Shawn's glazed look began to fade away. At the three quarter mark, the caffeine was starting to kick in given the way those eyes now looked around the room – actually seeming to see his surroundings. By the time the last bite was being swallowed, Shawn had shrugged away the quilt and had clasped his hands between his knees – gaze locking down on the floor. But not in the fugue state from earlier. Gus recognized the rare look of shame and wondered, again, what the hell had happened to put his buddy in this state. He thought back to finding him at that hotel and felt his chest knot up. What had he missed?

 

“Was it your dad?” Give him an opening. To outsiders, Shawn was an effervescent and charming; oftentimes irritating, chatterbox. But that was because it was what Shawn wanted them to see. Sure, he honestly enjoyed joking around, most of the time. But there were times Gus had seen the strain to perform. During a hard case. When he was fighting with his father. When he was stressed in general. Nobody else seemed to see it, but Gus did. And it was those times he jumped in to help carry the show forward.

 

Shawn shook his head, still making an intense study of the parquet flooring beneath his feet. Gus waited with him. There were times he could keep pushing, but this wasn't one of those times. Shawn was breathing in deeply; forcefully, and there was no missing the small hitch that rode along with every inhale.

 

The last inch of coffee in Gus's mug was cold by the time Shawn sniffed and rubbed his nose. And one more breath jerking through his lungs, he sat back against the couch. He still wasn't looking at Gus, but he wasn't staring at the floor either – his new focus now on his hands curled up together in his lap.

 

“I...” Sniff, rub, and exhale. “Can I stay at your place for the next couple days?” And finally, finally Shawn was looking back at him. It was an expression Gus had only seen a couple of times – the last time being when Yin had poked the tip of a needle loaded with death through the first layer of his epidermis.

 

“Yeah, of course... what's wrong with your place?” The shame surged back fast – previous glimpses nothing on the amount of humiliated pain he saw for the two seconds Shawn gave him access to his eyes.

 

And then the windows were closed to him as Shawn found fascination with his shivering knees. “I just can't... I can't stay there. Not right now.”

 

And that, Gus knew, was all he was going to get on the subject.

 

Shawn had only managed a few swallows from his mug before setting it aside. Gus carried them both to the kitchen and rinsed them out in the sink. He set the package of muffins next to the microwave, no longer craving the chocolaty goodness. Going to work was looking less and less like a possibility. He didn't feel comfortable leaving Shawn alone and his friend looked as though he wouldn't be able to handle even temporary abandonment.

 

Finishing the small task in the kitchen, he went back to the break room to find Shawn drooping over his legs, eyes unfocused and blinking very slow.

 

“Come on, let's go. I got some pjs you can borrow.”

 

“Sou-z' good...” Slurring confirmed how quickly Shawn was beginning to crash. Though he hadn't even approached an answer for Shawn's condition, Gus knew it could wait. He flirted, just for a few seconds, with calling Henry. However, though Shawn had inferred that his father hadn't been the source of his troubles, it would feel too much like breaking a confidence to contact him just yet. Better to get Shawn to talk first before worrying about bringing Henry into it. Past experience didn't lend itself to him being the middle man in one of their battles. And there was no way Shawn would be up for a clash if it came to that.

 

The trip to the car involved a lot of weight bearing – Gus grateful, for the hundredth time, for those handful of inches he had on his buddy. The smidgen of height made all the difference when he was the one to carry them both to the little blue vehicle.

 

Manipulating Shawn into the front seat only took a minute and then Gus was darting around to the driver's side. By the time he was behind the wheel, baby bear snores were drifting from the seat to his right. Out cold, the lines of stress had eased from Shawn's forehead. But there was still worry in the tilt of his brows. No matter. Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow, when he was ready, Shawn would tell him why his best friend had been forced to go Spencer fishing at four in the morning. They'd talk it out over breakfast burritos. Whatever it was, they could manage it. Whatever it was, after all they'd gone through... after dealing with monsters like Yin, Gus knew they could get through this too. After all, it couldn't be worse than that... right?

 

Gripping that thought in his mind, he put the car in gear and backed out – managing a five point turn to get the vehicle situated and heading towards the freeway.

 

Yeah, Shawn would be just fine.

 

 


	7. Broken Waltz

Not so much the novelty she wished she could claim it was, Juliet O'Hara scrubbed sticky pellets from her eyes and twisted her somewhat blear smeared watch into her line of sight. A stake out at six in the morning nothing new considering past assignments, it took on a different dimension of propriety and accountability when the subject was her long lost boyfriend. Vick had no say in this venture, however. Thursday was the start of Juliet's weekend and her off time was her business even if that included escalating stalker tenancies. Henry, Gus, and Shawn himself had been blocking her for going on a week now – aided by a work load at the station that had utilized more free time than O'Hara could spare to grab her lunch from a vending machine before going back into the mess occupying both her and her partner's desks. Political scandal coupled with murder had a way of monopolizing every aspect of life from the lesser cases to even “lesser” relationships.

 

How much she'd been hoping to see him trounce through the bullpen and eel his way onto the case... Granted, with his father as liaison, those opportunities had dwindled significantly, but that wasn't always the stop gap Vick had hoped for. And this was just the sort of thing to catch Shawn's interest besides. So where had he been?

 

Over an hour and his bike still had hadn't returned; nor had she seen it leave. Had he even been at the apartment all week? Stunted conversations with Henry hadn't yielded anything more than that Shawn would need to explain himself to her personally. He wasn't one to bully himself into relationships – a comment that read a little off to Juliet yet she'd let it slide. Gus had been even trickier to nail down. Her few calls to him had been rushed; always busy, no time, gotta go. Her last attempt last night had gone right to voicemail. It was unbearable.

 

Another watch check. Six o' five. Late enough. As she understood it, he usually left for work around seven. He would answer his phone. And he was damn well going to talk to her this time. Or so help her God, she was breaking his arm.

 

 

~

 

 

What the hell?

 

Long blinks didn't change the color of the ceiling above him. Pebbled and off white. _“It's called eggshell, Shawn.”_ that clarification demanding he accept where he was. But where he was didn't make any sense! Gus's cushy bed. Gus's pillow smelling delicately of lavender oil. Gus's hand sewn quilt from his deceased Jamaican great grandmother Rasheba on his father's side. Shawn squinted. Exactly how out of it had he been yesterday? Very slow head turn to the right. The pillow beside him was empty. The gasp of relief contained a slight tremble. Given the neatness on that side of the mattress there'd been no all night vigil/pseudo Birdhouse comforting that would lead to the fallout of keeping a twenty-five foot bubble around his best buddy for the next three days. Banter and arm punching was one thing. Spooning together under blankies was another. And that didn't count camp outs cause that was more a safety precaution that any grown men could justify.

 

The first crippling lunge towards sitting up was as successful as his first and last date with Little Miss Baby Goth – a night out that had held the promise of ending the high school drought and ushering him into manhood. Instead, he'd earned himself his own steel encased suite complete with a filthy cot and a single ratty blanket – who knew when Hazmat had last been through to remove the stains of previous occupation. Curled up on the floor, he hadn't slept that entire night.

 

Bits and snips of this past night chunked through his brain as Shawn adjusted his aching body for attempt two. Freezing water. Crumbly sand. Dripping water on the office floor. Gus...

 

He'd called Gus. Why... why had he called Gus?

 

“ _Thank you so much, Shawn. You were wonderful!”_

 

No! No-no-no! Throbbing aches aside, he clawed himself from the bed and the twisted clutch of blankets around his limbs. Carpet burn on his elbows when he struck the floor, he scrambled towards the wall and slammed his shoulders back to brace himself through the sudden shakes.

 

Pain followed the pathway of numb, dragged into consciousness with the sudden movement. Tight through his gut and lower belly, the sensation of having been rammed repeatedly in the solar plexus by a bag of rocks was hard to escape; the sudden wash of filth down his form impossible to evade. The next scramble was to his feet, ignoring the soft knock at the door as he bulldozed into Gus's bathroom, locking himself away before stripping the... was he wearing baby ducky pjs? On the floor and shower on as hot as his skin could manage – not too worried about scalding if it shredded the touch of her fingers from his body. Her mouth... Nothing in his stomach to come up, though the single bucking attempt twisted a wrenching cramp through his belly. Under the clouding steam and heat, his skin began to flush bright red.

 

_Hand down between them – get it over with – end it fast – make it stop..._

 

That same hand smashed against the tile; knuckles bruising dark on the surface.

 

“ _Wow! Oh, Shawn just... wow!”_

 

_Barely waiting – touching again – forcing – sucking bruises on his throat – whisper “I love you” and pressing lower – sliding down his body – mouth on his belly – on his thighs – no, please... please stop, please..._

 

Not feeling the scald on his shoulders, hot felt cold, too cold, shivering and slumped...

 

_Make it end. Make it stop. Whatever you have to do – make it stop! Shame and hatred – touching – tight boil – only hurt – nails digging – make it stop – whatever it takes – heat in his belly – heat everywhere – pleading..._

 

His throat jumped and he wrapped his arms around his body – shielding himself even in this hidden space.

 

The taut strangle wrapping his throat not enough to squeeze away the rasping stutter that made it through the closing chords. Clarity – fault so perfectly delineated. Realization collected the jumbled fragments – assembled together in a single pointing finger. The act played out on his body no one-sided thing – his guilt could never be washed away.

 

Oh, God... what had he done!?

 

 

~

 

 

Another rap, “Shawn?” and then the sound of the shower. At least he was moving, already nearly ten – though a late sleeping Shawn was no novelty. But after everything last night, Gus figured a little worry entitlement was his due. Pushing open the door, he took in the tousled bed, pillows and blankets wadded around one another and trailing to the floor – sheets askew and yanked from the neatly tucked and military precise folds under the mattress. Shawn's clothes from the office were tangled up in the mass as well.

 

Pulling the garments free first, Gus then set to work on straightening the bed. Shawn might mock his devotion to a taut sheet but if they, God forbid, were ever drafted into military service, Gus didn't plan on being the schmuck busted to KP cause his dime wouldn't bounce high enough on his cot. Shawn could peel those potatoes all on his lonesome thank you very much.

 

Just a few minutes to set things right, his stomach reminding him, again, that a single bowl of cereal was no way to start out the day, Gus folded Shawn's clothes and left them on the bed before heading towards the kitchen. Of breakfast options there were no lack. He could make himself a full Las Vegas spread were he inclined. However, time was money and money was the bubbling acid juices in his gut telling him to step it up before they started to eat their way through his upper intestine. Waffles it was then.

 

Maybe not the Belgian beauty he'd have preferred, Eggo still got the job done and he snatched two blueberry disks from the freezer, popping them down and already salivating as the toasty scent soon enough began to rise up from the heating coils.

 

Aunt Jemima was freed from the cupboard next; then the box of powdered sugar. His phone rang as he was opening the fridge for the plastic box of strawberries tucked in behind the almond milk.

 

Setting the berries on the table beside the rest of his condiment stack, Gus grabbed the phone from the counter and took in the name on the screen. He felt his happily hungry gut start a fast journey to the soles of his feet.

 

Missed call, missed call, missed call – five times this morning alone...

 

“Hello?”

 

“ _Hey, Gus. Do you... do you think we can talk?”_

 

Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

 

Nodding wasn't an answer that would likely be heard – throat clearing a time buying device that didn't take nearly long enough. He could already see this ending badly. But then, he wasn't seeing a way out either. Crap.

 

“Uh, of course, Juliet. What... what did you want to talk about?”

 

Please say a case. Please say the station is being held hostage and that the only way the hostage takers would negotiate would be to talk out their demands with a psychic detective and his partner over a bag of Chex mix and orange Fanta.

 

“ _It's about Shawn.”_

 

CRAP.

 

There was a long enough span of silence for Gus to snatch at the waffle that prodded up from his toaster, a move instantly regretted at the burn that singed through his delicate fingertips. But what followed when Juliet spoke again was enough to halt his jog towards the sink and the salvation of cold water.

 

“ _Was this how it started with Abigail?”_

 

“What?” Choosing to blow on his fingers instead, he glanced towards his closed door and the muted sound of the shower.

 

“ _I mean, I could see it, Gus. How he stopped bringing her to the station. How he stopped talking about her during cases... He just... lost interest. And... and that's just what's happening now, isn't it.”_

 

Gaping, trapped in a scenario somewhere between his confession to Shawn of his plans to go away for college out of state and Shawn's follow up announcement of a road trip... three weeks later... via a postcard from Maine.

 

“Juliet, I'm sure it's not that at all!” So out of his depth, dammit Shawn!

 

“ _Gus, it's been a week! A week, and nothing!”_

 

A whole week? What? “He hasn't called you at all?” If he could slap his hand on his mouth to stop that unplanned boost to her fears he'd have done it, with all the strength of Mama Guster beating out every curse from his repertoire.

 

Did she even know Shawn had been in the hospital? As soon as he asked it he knew the answer. Of course she hadn't. If she had, she'd have been there for him. As she'd been trying to be there for him.

 

“ _Gus, just... please... please tell me what's going on...”_

 

Uh oh. Oh no, no, no... That better not have been an itty bitty hitch he'd just heard. Throat already closing up on him; no way he'd survive anything teary if she started to...

 

“I'm sure it's nothing.” He soothed in his best crooning soothe while feeling around his countertop for a box of tissue. Paper towel having to make a pinch hit he dabbed at the betrayal of eye fluid trying to sneak down his cheek.

 

The laugh was unexpected.

 

“ _You're right. You're right, this is stupid! Gus, I'm so sorry I shouldn't be calling you like this...”_

 

“No, it's okay! Look, Juliet, I know...” He turned the phone away to clear up his own itty bitty hitch while vowing to make Shawn pay. Highly. One more swipe of skin shredding coarse paper fiber and he ditched the towel too. “I know it hasn't always been easy... dating Shawn. It can be frustrating at times; aggravating, annoying, maybe even idiotic. But I can assure you, beyond anything else, the idiot l-cares about you.” Not his place to say 'love' though the word had tried very hard to hurl itself to certain doom off of his tongue. He didn't know where the two of them were with personal declarations of affection. He knew where _he_ would be had he finally put on his grown up pants and asked out the lady of his dreams he'd been half-assed courting for five damn years but Shawn had his own ways – curds and otherwise.

 

The sniff he heard had him reaching for more Brawny. Did he say Shawn was going to pay for this? Oh, the boy wasn't escaping it now without contusions. _“I know... But...”_ And she left it there, all gallows rope and twisting.

 

His waffle was cold. But then, he hadn't really been hungry for the past ten minutes.

 

Couples counseling had not been on his resume. Sure, he and Shawn had discussed, long ago, the ramifications of one or both of them dating in anything beyond the casual encounter. There were ground rules. Certain lines that were just not crossed. And being the middle man in a conflict was one of those lines.

 

But, then, Shawn just had to throw his ape wrench at the works by dating Juliet. Juliet – someone already established as Gus's friend. Someone who could even consider herself a confidant. Where did the rules fit with this? With Abby it had been different. She'd known Shawn since high school. And them dating had felt just like that – two high schoolers working their way up to a class ring. Shawn hadn't exactly jumped into that with both feet no matter how much he'd pretended to. Nor, it seemed, had Abigail. And when it had gotten just a little too real...

 

But Juliet was very, very different. Shawn's feet had been wet almost from day one. And yeah, the dance had gotten tired but it hadn't stopped him from stepping out on the floor. And tripping over his size thirteens again... and again... and again...

 

But then... somewhere in all that... he'd found his footing. And as much as it made Gus want to slug the guy in the temple right now, he couldn't just let Shawn start tripping again.

 

“Listen, Juliet. I promise you, I'll talk to Shawn. And so help me, if I have to drag his scrawny, white ass to your place and handcuff him to your door, I'll do it. I may need to borrow your handcuffs though...”

 

The chuckle in return was wet, but he'd take it over sobbing.

 

“ _Thank you, Gus.”_

 

His eyebrows rose. “Oh, and Juliet? Just so we understand...”

 

A brighter laugh. _“I know. Vault of secrets.”_

 

She was good.

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

“You know, Juliet called.”

 

Shawn stopped his rescue efforts for a second, one Booberry stuck at the tip of his spoon while he stared at its soggy fellows capsized in the excess of milk he'd swamped them in. A head tip sideways and the reenactment of the USS Indianapolis resumed – sans sharks of course. Who was Gus kidding, there were sharks everywhere.

 

“She's worried about you.”

 

Sigh and gaze fixed in the bowl, Shawn made a few mouth flaps before dropping his head a little. “I know.” Spoken softly, Shawn dropped the spoon back in the bowl and swept it away from the table, leaving behind little blue droplets across the floor. Breakfast now coating the trash, the bowl next hit the sink as Shawn moved onward towards the coffee pot.

 

“She'd kinda like to hear you say that.”

 

No words to that but shoulders drooped even more. Shawn made no move to grab a cup – he just stared down towards the pot. Gus stood then too and made for the counter, noticing the way Shawn edged away from him when he got within the three foot range. He wasn't used to Shawn having a comfort zone; another oddity that had more than a whisper of alarm attached to it. Since when didn't he know his best friend? Why wouldn't Shawn talk to him?

 

“She needs to hear from you.”

 

Nodding now, a little too agreeable but not enough to pin it down as a brush off.

 

“Shawn... what happened that day? When I picked you up at the hotel?”

 

There was actually a flinch at the question – shoulders jerking before Shawn could hunch himself forward. The side of his face that Gus could see washed suddenly white and fear that his dishes were about to be bathed in vomit was only superseded by the fear at what could have generated that reaction.

 

A round of thickish swallows followed, Gus fighting his own gag reflux by that point as well. Tears and puke – this was so not his day for sympathy suffering! But finally Shawn overcame the icky chugs welling up from his gut – though it was a close thing for both of them.

 

“It... it's all wrong, Gus...” So soft... but with nothing to add either before Shawn pushed away from the sink and crammed his hands into his hair instead. And if that wasn't enough to put a stammer in Gus's reply, the sight of wet shine in his friend's eyes more than did it for him.

 

“Please, just tell me...” But Shawn was shaking his head. And the answers that Gus had to work with in the silence were leaving bloody furrows through his gray matter.

 

“Shawn...”

 

Head shake. “Not now. Just... not now.”

 

Letting Shawn walk alone from the room tore at everything that told him not to do just that. Because he could see, in spite of the withdrawn stoop, that something in Shawn did want to talk. But that he couldn't. And it was the couldn't that terrified Gus. This was darker than he could have guessed – darker than he knew how to guess. The door he'd been trying so hard to break down he now found himself tripping over his feet to back away from. He hated himself for the rush of fear but the threat of knowledge was nearly choking. He knew his Genesis forward and back. He knew the consequences of eating the fruit dangled so tantalizing before him. Just a bite – it won't hurt – and the truth will make you great. But the truth was a curse; a damnation of thorns and torment.

 

But... but it was a truth Shawn was already living.

 

And how could Gus let his friend walk through it alone?

 

It was his hands now braced on the counter that Shawn had vacated. He could hear the movements in the other room – shuffling. After a little while, the television came on, volume low. He was pretty sure, though, that Shawn wasn't watching whatever was on.

 

But still...

 

Shoving off the counter, dragging together a smile that felt like broken glass, Gus walked into the room after his friend.

 

No, Shawn wasn't going to be alone in this. Not as long as Gus was still able to breathe. They were in this together; to hell with cursed fruit. Gus would eat every damn bite.

 

For Shawn.

 

 


	8. Blood Soaked Dreams

Eight days of hovering had been enough. Awkwardness wasn't something Shawn did well and when it came to sharing it with Gus, it became agonizing. Chasing him back to work after the second day had been both ironic and a relief – waylaying the smothering den mothering for at least a few hours.

 

Sitting by himself in the apartment had been an unexpected level of lonesome.

 

Far as he knew, his bike was still at the Psych office – though Gus had offered to get it to the apartment however he could. The offer had been brushed off. There were always cabs. The bus. Walking. It was odd being stuck between wanting to stay and wanting to go. Nervous tension. Like his skin was buzzing. Wasps all up in his flesh – he could feel their hum in his teeth.

 

Letting his hands shake out at his sides, he left the couch to wander through the kitchen. He hadn't realized how little he'd been eating lately until Gus had mentioned his appearance that morning. _“You sure you don't want any pancakes or something? You're looking a little... lean.”_ Guess two weeks of barely nibbling was bad for health. If dad had been there he'd probably have started force feeding by now.

 

Dad wasn't there though. Hadn't even stopped by.

 

Hunger twisted in his belly where it hadn't lived for many days. He was midway through his third peanut butter sandwich before nausea tried to take over – the remains hitting the trash while he swallowed through a cramping bout of cold sweats. Keeping it all inside was a weak win but getting through a day without bathing something in puke was about the best he could hope for, it seemed.

 

A win that took a rapid left turn down a very dark alley with the chirpy ring of his cell. He ignored it, at first. Nobody calling him was anyone he wanted to speak to, obviously. He just hadn't realized how dead on that sentiment was until the fourth attempt to get through. Sure, he could have alleviated the issue a couple of ways. Turning off the phone was the simplest.

 

Why hadn't he just turned off the phone?

 

Curiosity. He didn't know the number. Another blame to heap on his father when his heart was no longer trying to burrow a hole through his chest – that desperate need to _know_. Well that need would be the end of his five hours of staying vomit free.

 

“ _You're with your whore, aren't you.”_

 

He hadn't been quite close enough to the couch for it to catch his dropping form, though it made an attempt – soft fabric turning coarse and painful when his back caught on the edge – rucking up his shirt and dragging a thin band of fabric burn along his spine. He'd notice it later after pulling his hunched form away from the toilet.

 

“W-what...”

 

“ _Oh, I know you, baby. You couldn't wait, could you. Even though I promised, you still ran off to that filthy slut of yours. Juliet O'Hara? That's the little whore's name, right?”_

 

“Don't call her that!” The anger cut a red path through his fear, leaving behind a burning mark that continued to scorch as her voice responded, her words growing soft.

 

“ _Shawn, now you know I can keep, even you, more than happy. Our first time together, how often we made love... you remember? It felt endless, and I took care of you that whole time, didn't I.”_

 

He struggled to keep his fury but her voice – the rise and fall of her tone – it was stripping away the layers of his anger and laying bare the naked emotion underneath everything else he felt. This was primal – the blind horror he felt as the words she spoke began to turn.

 

“ _This is the last time you see her. You finish with her, and then you say goodbye. She isn't your future, Shawn. I am. She'll never do for you what I can. She'll never love you the way I do.”_

 

His legs pulled in tight to his body, one arm wrapped around his knees. He could feel the shivers already working up his limbs. Dear God, did she know where Gus lived? But no, she said she thought he was with Jules.

 

“ _I'm being generous. You have half an hour to placate the whore. And then I expect you here. I'm not a fool. I know how men think and you're no different than any of them in that regard. But then, there are ways you are so very different too. You are my treasure and I won't let anything take you from me. And if that means a reminder of what can happen, no matter how terrifying, so be it. If you don't come to me, then you'll force me call the police.”_

 

Shawn's response was a gulp, all words dried to sand behind his teeth. The concept of rising from the floor was beyond him. The notion of willingly walking into her arms at a level far beyond violating. The shaking that had begun as small tremors eclipsed into violent convulsions through his body. His hold on his gag reflex was quickly being lost.

 

“ _All of those criminals you helped to put away. Do you think they've forgotten you? You know they haven't. What do you think they'll do when they know they have you? What do you think will happen when you discover there isn't a single guard who will hurry to save you – thinking you're exactly what you've been accused of being, and that you deserve this? If they even leave you alive, what will be left of you? And what about the next day? And the one after that? And all the years to follow. Imagine them, Shawn. Imagine those nights, alone, when the shadows begin to move across the walls of your cell. When your cellmate grows restless and decides he needs and outlet. And when the others come for you... How long before you beg them to cut your throat?”_

Shawn could feel himself slipping. His knees drew up tight to his chest as the images rolled like film through his mind. He could see their faces – all those criminals he'd helped capture – the times he'd given testimony and been directly threatened. Empty promises of revenge as most of those guys had gone away for life or at least long enough. But now...

 

And he found himself asking, again, if her torments even slightly neared the torture of what would be done to him behind bars. It was a whole lot easier to imagine it now. Fear sweat felt cold on his forehead – the stench of it cloaked around his body. He was frozen on the floor – both mind and limbs blocks of ice. He didn't know what to do. Voluntarily walk into her arms or risk jail and the horrors she'd fixed in his mind. Either way, it felt like a life sentence of slowly dying.

 

“Please...” He hated the way his voice trembled. He hated that he could only beg.

 

“ _No! I'm the one saying please! You can't just walk out on us, Shawn – not now! I need you! And I will do everything it takes to get you back!”_

 

There was no timeframe after she hung up – ultimatum delivered. Certainly no more than minutes. It could have been hours. He remembered heaving into murky water until the tears soaked into his collar. After that, he'd been walking. There was only one destination – hazy as it was. One goal. He'd dismissed the man earlier, as any sort of aid, but this wasn't the act of a thinking brain.

 

Something inside him had... snapped.

 

He only knew he had to find him. Maybe it was the fact that the guy wasn't family. The fact that he was a hardass and not likely to coddle or... touch. Maybe there was a tiny part of Shawn's mind that remembered the guy might just play fair after the past few years of mutual life saving in spite of said saving weighing more heavily on Shawn's end of the scale. Maybe he thought... was frantic enough to believe... one more act of rescue wouldn't be too much to ask for.

 

 

~

 

 

 

He'd been returning to his desk when he'd spotted him – feet slapping the marble floor and eyes straight ahead, Shawn didn't even glance his direction as he breezed by; though Henry had stepped nearly into his path.

 

“Shawn...”

 

Not a glance, the young man continued through the bullpen; actually leaning forward as though barely restraining himself from a full run. Over a week since their blow up at the Psych office and Henry was through giving Shawn his space. Kid had been avoiding him, well fine, but he was here, now, and they were going to talk no matter what.

 

By the time Henry caught up to Shawn, jogging to reach the rapid stride, they were next to the conference room. “Shawn!”

 

Still nothing and the continued ignoring grated on Henry's temper. Angry, he reached out to snatch one backward swinging arm.

 

“Dammit, Shawn!”

 

Whirling, Shawn ripped away from him, feet tripping up over themselves as he backpedaled from his father's grasp. The crazed gasp of breath preceded shaking head and Shawn stared at his father with the look of a terrified animal. “Don't!”

 

One step forward and Shawn scrambled another step away, passing over the conference room threshold and through the door. The moment the room enclosed him he looked up, around himself, and began to shake. “Please, please stop, please...” His hands gripped at his ears and Henry stared back – the ugly twist a hot bubble through his stomach.

 

“Shawn...” He kept his voice soft as he reached towards his son a second time.

 

And was blindsided by a wallop of agony that smashed through his skull – barely managing to put together that he'd just been smacked by his own kid. No time to nurse the pain he was struck again across the nose in an open slap, stinging sharp pain through his eyes and starting a warm trickle across his lips.

 

“Shawn, STOP!” Grappling, with the flailing arms, he heard the rushing thud of heels as nearby officers poured down the hall towards the sudden shouts. He'd seen the look in Shawn's eyes – the kid didn't seem to even know what he was doing. It was panic, not anger, that drove him as he began frantically twisting in Henry's grip. “Calm down, kid! Shawn! Shawn!”

 

“PLEASE DON'T!!” One thrashing foot swept out and caught Henry in the knee, stumbling him down and allowing Shawn to break free. And before Henry could even react, Shawn spun towards the conference room window.

 

“Sha- _NO_!” Shards exploded as Shawn crashed his fists through the heavy glass.

 

The shock of trickling spears slipping from the frame couldn't have been more than a few seconds, though it seemed an eternity that Henry watched arms gouge themselves on the razored planes. Backward tumble was broken as he lunged for the falling body, only to have his son tear himself away and claw towards the table centered in the room.

 

Shawn, curled down to the floor and ignoring the blood slicking his arms, opened his mouth in a shattering wail. Tears fell down his cheeks, pattering on the carpet. Wild sobs, nearly screams, shuddered and ripped from his throat uncontrollably. This was not a reaction to the pain he had to be feeling – regardless of how bad his injury was. These were the terrified shrieks of someone gripped in terror.

 

“What the hell is going on!” Height advantage shoving aside the stunned crowd, Lassiter bullied through the gathered officers.

 

“Help me!” Kneeling beside Shawn, Henry tried to calm him, desperate to get pressure on the bleeding wounds. Crammed even further under the table; eyes tight shut and breath shattering from him, Shawn stiffened. Henry snatched towels from a random officer, who was, in turn, hustled back out of the room as Lassiter cleared the predominantly staring group. Shawn no longer fought; one arm curled awkwardly around a table leg while the other encircled his head. Blood soaked into the short carpet fibers beneath him.

 

“Jesus, Spencer...” Lassiter was beside him a second later; openly as shocked as Henry felt at the destruction of the last five minutes. His hands pushed in as well, fresh towels added to the saturated ones no longer holding back the spreading blood.

 

“We need more towels! Hurry, dammit, he's bleeding to death!”

 

The moment the detective spoke, Shawn's eyes opened. His eyes took in the other man – laser locked on his face. And the words Henry had been trying for weeks to wrestle free burst out from him in a jagged rush.

 

“She wouldn't let me go! She said, she said she-she was a client – she said her ex... But she didn't have one and she – she needed to be somewhere safe but I-I... I couldn't stop her, Lassie! I tr-tried and she... but she didn't stop and I begged – but she just... and I'm sorry! I tried, I tried so hard and she wouldn't stop-she wouldn't stop! I'm sorry! It's my fault! It's all my fault!” Trembling up into high octave, Shawn's voice more of a very young child – a kettle scream, traumatized and shrill.

 

Lassiter snapped his fingers in Shawn's face, while Henry, sick and shaking, could only stare down at his sobbing, terrified boy. Could only keep pressing his hands down, hard, against the pulse beat squeezing wet between his fingers as more thick cloth was added to the bundle in his hands. Not enough. Still not enough.

 

“Who, Spenc-Shawn! What happened? I need details; were you attacked?”

 

Hard to make out the words, Shawn's teeth clacked together in an icy tremble. “Rh-Rhonda... said her n-name was Rh-Rhonda! She-she... at the hotel... three days and... and again...” His inhale was a rasp of agony – drawn out in another wail of words. “She... at my apartment... sh-she wouldn't stop! She m-m-made... She m-m-made... I couldn't stop; I just wanted it to stop! I wanted it to stop! But she-she-she said... she said I'd go to jail – that they'd re-remember me an-and...” Bloodshot and glazed his eyes stared at Lassiter, breath wheezing in panic. “Please don't put me in jail! Lassie please – please, I didn't want to, I didn't, please! Please don't put me in jail! Please, Lassie! Please! I didn't want to, but I couldn't- I couldn't...” Gasping took over again as the words mashed into hitching sobs.

 

“Shawn...” Lassiter's eyes widened – truth in them now as it was in Henry's chest with every stammered cry, every shriek of agony that had crowded against him – father's instinct demanding he shove Lassiter from the room as well and shield his son from this interrogation – cop instinct forcing his knees to stay bolted to the floor for the final hammer fall. “Were you raped?”

 

And with that last question. That last, unexpectedly compassionate demand, Shawn nodded.

 

Henry shook his head desperately. No. Not his child... Please no... But the whispers he'd been fighting against – the knowledge bearing against his denial, had finally found purchase and the crashing truth could no longer be forced away.

 

Shawn was raped.

 

His son was raped.

 

And then the memory of his response when he'd cornered his son at his office began to fill in the cracks left in between that blunt horror. He looked to his left at the cop beside him. The shutters of professionalism had yet to fall across Lassiter's face – the truth had frozen them both. Pale skin washed paler still. The gaze wouldn't meet his back. But then, instead, a look Henry would never have banked on seeing directed at his son, from the man he existed to torment, overcame Lassiter's eyes. An expression so encompassing, so raw, Henry knew it was beyond the other man to contain. Grief. It was a flash only – missed had he hesitated longer than a breath. Then the eyes squeezed tight, held for an inhale, and opened. And the shutters were there – a voice that may have wavered in its last question now solid. Professional. Livid.

 

“WHERE THE FUCK ARE THOSE EMTS!”

 

Shawn's body jerked at the shout, but not as badly as Henry thought he could have. Until he looked at Shawn's face and saw lidded eyes blinking lazily. Shawn was slipping. Blood pooled around them, the severe damage to his arms draining his life away between their fingers. Hateful knowledge leaving a void in Henry's gut. Shawn was dying.

 

The paramedics arrived less than three minutes later. But even in his drowsy and seemingly compliant state, the moment Shawn was set upon by all those new forms, he panicked. Voice bleating and cracked, he wrenched both arms trying to break free – though both Henry and Lassiter were holding tightly enough to bruise. Both swore as well, Henry with desperation, as they wrestled Shawn out from under the table. Kicking, biting, Shawn did everything he could to break free of the attempts to save him. Three more officers piled in at Lassiter's command – two holding his legs with their knees pressed against his hips while another held Shawn in a headlock – one hand under his jaw to prevent teeth from snapping. The scream of fear muffled through Shawn's tightly clamped mouth was terrible to hear. Barely enough room for them, an additional two officers gripped muscle locked biceps – knees pressed to shoulders while Henry and Lassiter carefully slipped back and allowed paramedics access to the wreathing form. The sedative kicked in fast. Even as it was dragging Shawn under, they were already strapping him down to a backboard.

 

And then Lassiter was clearing a path through the wall of blue, overlapped by Vick's sharp tone demanding to be brought up to speed on the sudden violence in her station.

 

But it wasn't the Chief that Henry spotted a couple of feet outside the door. She'd had to have seen her partner and his charge pass by her only moments before, but it was the blood on Henry's arms and dress shirt that brought Juliet's hands to her mouth, words whispering past her fingers.

 

“Oh my God, what happened to Shawn!?”

 

 

~

 

 

How often had he drilled into his son the need for objectivity? Look at the what, not the who. Just because the suspect was polite and from a good family didn't mean they were innocent. And just because the victim was male didn't mean he hadn't been... couldn't have been...

 

He choked on it. He couldn't think it even after hearing it spoken by Lassiter. Even after seeing it confirmed by his son in a single nod. Not his boy.

 

Shawn had given every indication – had shown the signs so clearly. But Henry had ignored them all. And rather than try to help his child, he'd done the exact opposite. Fallen into the easy pattern of accusation and disappointment because he was anything but objective when it came to his son. He didn't have to wait for the verdict to have already settled on where the blame lie.

 

Well he knew where to place that blame, now, didn't he.

 

He'd face a firing squad gladly if it could undo this horror. Erase the memory of Shawn falling apart while his father had walked away from him; resigned to the cycle of disappointment his son brought to his life. Because this was all about Henry. Had he even given it the barest thought when Shawn had pulled away from him? No, not pulled away – cringed. What sort of father could have overlooked that open fear? He didn't have excuses for himself and he'd be damned if he looked for any. What he'd done to Shawn was vicious.

 

Two weeks, at least, that Shawn had been carrying this violation alone. Gus would have spilled, one way or another, had he known. The kid may be a brother to Shawn but he held secrets like a sieve. His son should never have had to be alone in this.

 

Glad for the privacy of the hospital bathroom, Henry swiped his eyes again before snatching a few paper towels. He'd called Gus on the way to the ER, though only with the information that Shawn had been hurt. The other was something that could only be told face to face. Though, not the same for Madeline. That call had been much, much harder. Knowledge he still couldn't accept himself, he'd hardly known where to begin. Enough for her to be told her son could be dying. By the end, they'd both been weeping, though Henry had restrained his trembling voice to give her the assurances he didn't believe in. She'd be there as soon as she could and that had been enough.

 

He unlocked the door and stepped back into the lobby long before he was ready to face the worried forms monopolizing a corner of the waiting room. Gus must have arrived while Henry had been splashing his face in the sink. Detective O'Hara stood a few feet to the side; next to her partner. Shell-shocked expression and puffy eyes; he wondered how much she really knew. He just didn't have it in him to be the one to tell her. He still needed to talk to Gus and he had no idea how to begin that conversation. Lassiter appeared unaffected. But Henry hadn't forgotten the look, unhidden, that he'd let slip in the conference room.

 

Why hadn't he seen?

 

How could he have done this to his son?

 

Gus was standing now – approaching. Every footstep bringing him closer to knowledge that would kill him. Henry felt like an executioner, waiting to drop the axe to his neck. Already one young man had been broken by his callousness; now another waited the same fate. His palms across his eyes weren't enough to steady him. There was nothing that could, knowing the obscenities that had been committed against his child.

 

“Mr. Spencer?”

 

Worried squeak. Already fighting a shaky voice, Gus still reached out to him. Still dredging the courage to offer support to a terrified father. Henry felt like a monster. His own hand wrapping those long fingers, he demanded his eyes meet the overfilled gaze across from him, trying to find a way to tell Gus that nothing would be the same from then on. Shawn would not be the same.

 

And in so telling, they wouldn't be the same either.

 

He found them a private room to speak.

 

He shared what he could based on the stuttered words and unspoken admission from his son. And he was close enough to catch Gus when stumbling legs nearly brought him to the floor.

 

It took far longer for the sobs to die enough for them to return to the main room. Gus hadn't been alone in his tears, either. And while the release hadn't chased away the sickness, it had helped. Just a little, it had helped.

 

And then, all that was left to them to do was to wait.

 


	9. Monsters in the Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so grateful for the amazing reviews! Thank you so much!! I'm sorry it's taking so long to get this story posted here - I've been going through all of the chapters and fixing a lot of old issues such as timeline quirks, spelling, and characterization. I super appreciate the patience!

He'd known his partner had wanted to tear out after the stretcher as it had been wheeled through the station. Blood no longer contained by the inadequate cotton surrounding shredded arms had left a bright path of drops and smears all the way out to the door – trailing from fingertips slung loose off of the thin bedding before a medic had noticed the wayward appendage and secured it beneath the straps.

 

He caught her by the arm and pulled her into an empty room, risking her panicked anger in the need to provide yet another terrible blow to her crumbling reserves. He hated himself for it.

 

“Carlton, let me go!” Almost the same plea from her boyfriend. Almost as frantic.

 

Boyfriend. Funny how it didn't stir that mixed gumbo of revulsion and blindsided shock as it had when he'd first let the word peck its way through his brain. That afternoon outside interrogation, what felt like eons ago, now, he'd been giving his partner her privacy while silently watching her back. And then Spencer had bumbled into the room. Angry at the young man's intrusion, Carlton had almost pursued the idiot to drag him out by his collar when he'd actually heard the words spoken between them. Nonsense, mostly, though it was O'Hara's weak smile that had held him back from intruding.

 

And then the kiss. Not some little encouraging press to the forehead either. And it had been reciprocated. He wondered, now, how his betrayed wrath had bubbled so hot – so vindictive. In light of everything, now... so petty.

 

Spencer had been able to do something for O'Hara that none of the rest of them had. After the year of hell – the tortures that had been heaped upon her... Spencer had brought back her smile. Whatever else he may have been to the officers at the station and to Carlton's blood pressure, he'd become a Godsend to Juliet. Just to hear his partner humming one of her off key show tunes or whatever it was that she'd listened to on the way to the station. To see her whole again...

 

Ambulance most likely on its way, O'Hara tugged from the hand he'd wrapped around her wrist. He let her go but pushed the door to the room shut. Staring at the woman, now, Carlton felt himself chilled at what he had to do to her.

 

“O'Hara...” He felt the creak in his voice and licked his lips, watching her throat jog as she studied him. There hadn't been much he could keep from her any longer. Just one word and her face lost color fast. It could also have been from the streaks of blood transferred from his hand to her sleeve, though she hadn't been looking at them.

 

“Carlton, I have to get to the hospital! Can't this wait?” Her step forward did nothing to budge him but he knew he couldn't keep holding her there. She'd tase him in the kneecap if he didn't spit out what was on his mind.

 

“There's something you need to know first.”

 

The words would have been easier without seeing her eyes. Watching as first shock, and then disbelief shifted her expression. But it wasn't long before agony overtook all else and he found his arms weighted by her weeping form. As with another time when he'd held her in her pain, he said little – his words unremembered and notable more for cadence than content.

 

Afterwards, he drove her to the hospital; her form beside him like a marble carving.

 

It was for his partner that he remained there – watching Henry and Guster pace by turns while O'Hara locked herself down in one of the soft chairs next to the wall. He sat beside her even though the allure of putting feet to tile alongside the other men tickled through his limbs more than once. Needing repetitive motion, he finally pulled out his phone to spin it in his hands.

 

The hours were like wading through glue.

 

Updates from the nursing staff were sparse; called in on Henry's phone and mostly to say that Shawn was still alive. Still fighting. Carlton took it upon himself to repeat the messages to Vick who awaited those same updates at the station. Her encouragements to Henry and Gus, that everyone was pulling for Shawn, were met with only nods.

 

After a time, Carlton put his phone away again. His partner's hand on his sleeve lifted him from a doze some while later. A doctor had come into the waiting room and was speaking to the group. Carlton had missed some of the words but what he caught was enough. Spencer would live. Considerably lighter in blood volume and a dose of physical therapy in his future but he would live. Carlton barely acknowledged the gasp of relief as his own.

 

He urged O'Hara to go with Henry and Gus to see him once Shawn had been moved from recovery into a private room. Four people crowding into that small space was pushing it and he needed to stretch his legs and throw a lasso around his thoughts. All he had to go on, so far, was a first name. Rhonda. Gus had filled in more details about the hotel he'd picked up Shawn at a couple of weeks ago. It was all they had. As if any evidence could possibly still remain after that amount of time. Still, until Shawn was coherent, they had nothing else to work with. A final call to the Chief included a request for a warrant. And then it was back to waiting.

 

He'd still considered pursuing the other three to the room only to go for coffee instead. Something black twisted through him at the thought of seeing Spencer again. He couldn't mesh that personality with the babbled confession he'd heard. It made no sense. He needed focus and he wouldn't gain it staring down at a wretched form with a headful of horrors.

 

He must have been in the cafeteria a while. He'd spoken to the Chief again, in that time; her relief a deep breath over the phone followed by a comment that she'd pass around the update on Shawn. There were three empty coffee cups littering his table and a fourth growing cold when O'Hara sat down across from him.

 

“How is he?” He'd only glanced up at her strained face before returning his attention to the table top. The pain she wore hadn't faded since he'd spoken to her at the station. If anything it had deepened.

 

“Asleep. He's receiving transfusions; will be getting them through the night. He... he almost...”

 

Carlton pulled his eyes up again as her voice shook. Tears hugged against her lower lashes. A sigh was enough to loosen them down her face. He wasn't given the chance to offer whatever might be clinging to the tip of his tongue, though, before her jaw firmed and she straightened. “Anyway, visiting hours are done for the day and they aren't making any exceptions.” The words were tainted bitter but she knew as well as he did an all night vigil would have been a stretch. “Mr. Spencer was given a few extra minutes but we're all heading out. We can come back tomorrow at eight.”

 

Carlton nodded. “I'll give you a ride.”

 

“I don't need a ride, I can-”

 

He got her hand in his, then; expecting her to yank it away. But tired as she was, it only twitched under his palm before her whole body sagged towards the table.

 

“Okay.”

 

He gave a small squeeze of her fingers before standing. “Come on. I'll make sure you're back here in the morning.”

 

Her nod was enough as he lead her towards the door. A sure bet she wouldn't be sleeping much that night – probably for many to come. But this much he could do for her. For now.

 

As for the rest... A shot at the bitch that had created this nightmare would be a start.

 

 

~

 

 

The doctor had said two days at least, so Gus should have known Shawn would start blinking lids at a day and a half. Not that he was really with it at first. There were still a lot of drugs doing their best to keep him under so, given he was able to wake up at all, it was impressive. One mummy wrapped limb had batted out from under the blankets until a slur of words let the watching family know Shawn was looking for water. He hadn't complained when the closest he could come to that refreshment had been a few spoonfuls of ice chips. Three chilled mouthfuls and his blinky eyes had shut to stay again.

 

He'd woken up again around six that evening; a tiny bit more alert but not enough to know what was going on or where he was. Maybe that had been for the best because when he'd seen Juliet at his side, his smile had blazed across his face at a million watts. Her tears had troubled him and he'd even tugged her down for a kiss. A rather long kiss that had left Gus staring up at the ceiling in discomfort.

 

Instead of letting Juliet straighten afterward, though, Shawn had shocked them both when he'd grizzlied his arms around her and gripped her fiercely – his eyes starting to widen through gasps as something had begun to crumble in his face. Neither one of them had known what to do.

 

Henry had arrived half an hour later; thrilled that Shawn had still been awake, though it hadn't lasted much beyond that. With his friend once more nodding away, Gus had decided to call it a night, Juliet doing the same though it had been hard for her to leave her boyfriend's side. The doctor had lifted some of the visitation restrictions with Shawn's recovery improving but that didn't mean Gus could pull an all nighter with a route waiting for him the following day. And though Juliet had been on leave from work, her body hadn't had the stamina to remain. Besides, Henry had nearly begged for some time alone with his son. The rarety of that plea coming from the old man had been something neither one of them had been willing to fight. They'd have plenty of time to sit with Shawn in the days to come. They could give Henry this.

 

Despite the lack of preparation for the following day, however, it hadn't been new drug samples on his mind, that night, when Gus had finally slunk into bed. He'd been thinking about Shawn's face when he'd finally charmed Winnie Guster into accepting him. For letting go of the years of resentment. A naturally happy fellow, that moment, Shawn had been euphoric. For all his vast and fast won friendships, there were a severe few people Shawn could actually count on as truly caring about him. So to win that acceptance, from someone he'd craved that attention from; it had made Shawn glow. Still, it had only been much, much later that Gus had truly put together why that moment had meant so much to Shawn. As much as he loved his own mother, she had never filled the beloved and cherished role of 'mom' – not in the way Shawn's “Happy Days, Cosby Show, Family Ties” influenced brain had yearned for her to. Not the way Gus's own mother had effortlessly done for him. And he'd taken it so much for granted, too. Homemade cookies, family dinners every night, tucking into bed, singing, laughter, love, overbearing yet secretly appreciated worry... It had been everything Shawn had gone without. And what he'd had, as pared down as it was, had been ripped away from him when he'd needed it more than any time in his life. The loss casting him adrift.

 

But still... with all of that, and more, enough to twist most people into bitter and resentful jerks, Shawn had never let it consume his heart. The cliche of people with a smile that lights up a room? With Shawn, he also lit up the other people _in_ the room. He rarely was without his dazzling spark – Icarus in spirit, yet always managing to stay far enough beneath the beams of sunlight that his wings never failed him. Gus had never feared that Shawn could ever lose that. Well, not until Yang. That had been the closest he'd seen his friend come to breaking. Had he not been able to save Abby... had they not gotten to Jules in time... And later, when Yin had nearly plunged that needle into Gus's arm. He'd seen what Shawn could have been with a crushed soul. Never would he have thought their childhood wish fulfillment/ dream job could have been so dangerous. But by this point they'd been in too deep. They'd dug a hole they couldn't escape from. And as bad as it had gotten, Shawn still hadn't wanted to. He'd still loved it.

 

But now...

 

For the moment, it seemed as though Shawn wasn't remembering anything. His doctor had suggested it could be from his brain essentially shorting out. It was just guesses – Shawn would need to see a psychologist for a true evaluation. Whatever this was – some sort of self-induced, automatic protection from Shawn's own brain, he hoped it would last. Shawn was desperately in need of a break, regardless of how false it was. Just a couple of days to be himself again, even if that self was muffled and distant and barely awake.

 

Gus scrubbed at his face. Would he ever see his best friend again? Or was this bleary facsimile – toasted on morphine and two days out from nearly dying, his last glimpse of a soul forever lost?

 

 

~

 

 

Three days of bedrest – a dream come true for someone floating on opiates and exhaustion. Lots of bizarre dreams – drugs tended to affect him that way. Something about pirates and kangaroos holding up an old West bank before escaping on time traveling gorillas. It had all made perfect sense, while sleeping.

 

He heard movement beside him and sighed as fingers brushed the hair from his head; a soft breath shushing him.

 

“Dad...”

 

His voice dragged out in a gravel raw creak.

 

The world felt thick and he just wanted to sink into that weight. The warmth wrapping around his body and the softness beneath him were the best things he'd felt in forever. He snuggled into it and enjoyed the caress smoothing his forehead.

 

“Dad.” He breathed out.

 

It took a few more ticks of his brain to notice the wrong.

 

No callouses.

 

Small... tapered...

 

His eyes squinted open.

 

Soft eyes looked back at him, lips tucked up into loving dimples. His head crushed deep into his pillow as a million memories he hadn't known he'd had smashed past the flimsy picket fence that had been holding them back.

 

_Rhonda!_

 

Her fingers stroked against his cheek – the soft touch freezing him – closing his throat. He couldn't move. He could feel the scrambling shivers of panic winding barbed wire against his larynx and the wail of fear at her kiss to his lips was nothing but air. Seconds later, a gush of wet heat spread down his thighs as he lost control of his bladder. The stink of urine tainted the air along with his terror laden sweat. Rhonda, though, didn't seem to notice any of it.

 

“She was right.” Whispered her breath against his cheek. Shawn swallowed and felt the choke of locked vocal chords. Rhonda's face glowed above his, her hands now on his chest – rubbing circles beneath the hospital gown. “You are special. So very special.”

 

Tears soaked through his hairline. Jagged gasps and snuffles of terror slicing through the barrier of silence. He shook so hard that it ached. She wiped the wetness away with the heel of her palm. Dread settled in his belly as the touches continued – almost worse that they were so gentle and comforting. She hadn't reached lower, yet, but there was nothing to stop her if she chose to. He was nothing. Less than nothing.

 

He mashed his cheek into his pillow when she kissed him again – her fingers scrolling up to his hairline to tease against his ears. She continued on across his face and down his neck, twitching his flesh where she nipped the vein beating wildly beneath her lips. Her whispered words were a hot flush against his earlobe. Her touches growing stronger. He was in a frenzy to reach the place in his mind that was empty of everything. He had to get there before she started. Had to find that silent safety.

 

Her palm brushed over his thigh; curling inward, and his tightened voice shivered out a small cry.

 

“I have the most... _wonderful_ news sweetheart.”

 

Her other hand grasped one of his, the pain of compressed stitches turning his cries into a hurt moan. Her smile never faded as she pulled his palm towards her – eyes radiant.

 

 

~

 

 

The call to Madeline had taken nearly twenty minutes; easily could have stretched to an hour. She would be there, soon. Her schedule had taken a little time to shuffle but she'd finally found a couple of colleagues at other precincts to cover her sessions. Shawn needed her. Henry was no use to him; that was clear. He'd just made things so much worse for his son.

 

Shawn had been sleeping when he'd left the room and he'd refused to disrupt that with his call. Plus, as bad as it was, he needed whatever alertness could be bought in a two dollar cup of coffee from the cafeteria. Better, at least, than the vending machine sludge that passed itself off as fit for human consumption. He got in a couple sips on his way back down the hallway.

 

The rest of it covered the floor in a black pool when he was five feet from Shawn's room – dropped from stiffened fingers at the tearing shriek that tore straight through his spine.

 

His shoulder slammed through the door while the medical staff nearby were still looking up from their desks.

 

A woman was bent over the bed; caressing Shawn beneath his gown.

 

“Get away from him!” Cop and father both, he tore away the hands that were touching his son – Shawn midway to clawing himself from the mattress the second an opening was created; was still fighting past the rail when his body convulsed, vomit spattering down the side of the bed.

 

“ _I NEED HELP IN HERE!_ ”

 

“Let me go! Shawn! I need to go to him!” Struggling with the wild body, Henry shoved the woman against the wall; using his weight to keep her pinned. One hand locked around the arm he'd bent into the middle of her back while the other mashed her left hand above her head. Shawn, meanwhile, had dragged himself to the corner and had begun yanking at the bandages around his arms, eyes popped wide, breath thundering in sharp pants.

 

“Shawn, stop, kid! SOMEONE HELP ME!”

 

Finally, the door shoved open again, though, by this point, Shawn's clawing had reopened stitches; blood shedding down his arms. But, at the sudden entrance of nursing staff he crumpled into himself, yanked away from them, and screamed.

 

“Please, I have to get to Shawn!” The woman was still struggling and Henry ground his elbow into her back.

 

“You aren't getting anywhere near him! I need security here!”

 

“You're going to hurt the baby!”

 

It was one of those moments. The cliché of hearing a pin drop. Only Henry felt the drop through his whole body.

 

“Wh-what?” Whisper thread of sound; he couldn't make sense of his own voice as it slipped from his throat.

 

There was ice where his limbs used to exist; frozen stumps locked around flexing muscles. She was still trying to escape him but there was no chance of that. Not with his hands clamped down – solid. The creature he held strained against him, her eyes fixed on Shawn; now curled up and silent on the floor. And Henry felt his whole world peeling away from him at the words she spoke then; her voice shifting from desperate to ardent.

 

“Shawn is going to be a daddy. I'm carrying your grandchild!”

 


	10. Under the Light, Condemned

He stared at the results. Stared but no longer saw. He hadn't wanted to believe.

 

A lie, just a sick lie to twist the knife; to hurt his son. As if she hadn't already hurt him so much already. Hadn't already... already broken him. But... but it was all true. Hadn't even needed to argue doctor patient confidentiality; she'd wanted him to know. Wanted them both to know. Not that Shawn was anywhere in any condition for learning anything more at this point; his mind had shut down after this last attack. He was an empty shell; the only sign of life the steady breaths lifting his chest.

 

“We can't know for certain who the father is without a paternity test, which can be done as early as the tenth week of pregnancy, if that's what the mother wants.”

 

Mother. Henry rubbed at his lips; felt the sickness trying to slip from between them. But as certain of anything he'd ever been, he was certain about this too. The urge to weep for his boy rose within him once more. The urge to throw up his guts, to pound holes in the walls with his fists, to roar at the unknowing doctor at his side who didn't know... didn't realize.

 

“Thank you.” He whispered, because no more than whispers could make it through the vise.

 

Alone and back with his son – allowing the nurse to return to her rounds and like hell Shawn would be left unattended again, he held on to the lax fingers poking free from the gauze wrapped nearly to the tips. His grip was no tighter than it would be were he holding the soft fingers of a newborn. Punching through glass had not only severed veins and arteries but had snapped bones and popped joints as well. A day after the event and the flesh had swollen and grown dark – knuckles disfigured beneath the bandages. It would be weeks before he could use his hands again. But they would heal.

 

“ _Dad, I don't know what to do!”_

 

He'd been pleading; desperate for Henry to see.

 

“ _You're right, kid. You blew this. Big time.”_

 

He could hang himself with those words. Had this been anyone but his son. Had he been a cop that day. If a young woman had said those things...

 

“ _Don't touch me!”_

 

But Henry... Henry had walked out, leaving that trembling creature alone in his office.

 

Oh, but he hadn't even reached the Father of the Year Award material yet.

 

Henry stared towards the ceiling but tears still tracked down his face. Forensics had been to the scene of the second attack. They had been able to put together a rough timeline knit together in ways that made sense to those quiet analysts and was blindly paid homage to by the cops that took their results on pure faith. But blood spatter and fluid tests; the nauseating find of a used container of lubricant, hadn't been as telling as the single slip of paper beneath a crushed box of pastries. A receipt, time stamped and dated, had been all the evidence needed to condemn. The day he'd fought with his son, that monster had gone to his child's apartment and raped him again. Repeatedly. Shawn had been tortured. Had Henry only listened to the kid this never would have happened! He'd failed Shawn on a profound level; the consequences barely something he could comprehend. It was beyond scope. Dear God...

 

“I'm so sorry... Oh kiddo I'm so, so sorry...” His voice was trapped and trembling. He couldn't even comfort his boy, Shawn was locked in his own paralysis; in his own mind and far out of reach from anything that could soothe away this vicious hurt. What was he trapped with in there? And how could Henry hope to save him from such a place?

 

Madeline's voice had nothing to add to his horror. Her silence in his head was more damning. He could never fix this. What had happened to Shawn... this was only just starting. And there was a lifetime of suffering ahead for him.

 

 

~

 

 

 

Buying a moment he mentally checked off visual stats – needing the seconds he didn't normally require for a stare down with a criminal. Not even in his own mind could he argue that this wasn't a far more involved situation than what he normally faced across an interrogation table. But whatever his feelings, he couldn't let it change his methods. He couldn't afford to.

 

Early forties and on the tallish side; maybe five eleven. Slender but not skinny. Blue eyes set off by what his sister called laugh lines to his derogatory “crow's feet”; round cheeks, small lips, reddish-brown hair in soft waves down to her shoulders – she looked like somebody's mother. Internal tongue sliced off at the root, the observation cut hard and sharp the moment it fluttered past. _Christ_. No. He couldn't do this now. He was the Head Damn Detective – impartial, bull-headed, and he got the job done. He would get this job done too. Another day, another dollar, another scumbag. That was all.

 

“So. Miss.... Woods is it?”

 

“Yes. Rhonda Joan Woods.” Her smile was easy and she brushed the hair back with her fingertips. He flashed on a very strong image of her in an apron, cooking dinner for her family all wholesome and pure – TV media perfect. And overlapping that quality programming, pushing into his brain, were broken screams – muffled in a dark room. A nail dug into the bed of his thumb pushed it back out again.

 

“But that wasn't the name you gave to Shawn Spencer.”

 

She shook her head. “No, that was my mother's maiden name. Was that illegal?”

 

 _Yes, that's why you've been arrested. For providing a false identity to a civilian._ He ignored the question and pressed on. “Have you ever been married?”

 

“Unfortunately, yes. His name was Alan; Alan Woods. I kept his name after the divorce. It was easier than going through the work of changing it back and I liked it better than Dresden. It's more actressy you know? Rhonda Joan Woods. Like something you'd see on a marquee.” She shrugged, brushing her hair back again. “Anyhow. We were married for ten years. I wish I'd known I'd been sharing him with someone else most of that time. I wish I hadn't forgiven him – thinking he'd stop. Five of those years were my simple ignorance. The other five were my stupid trust. It's been six years since I've seen him – no loss.”

 

She wasn't making this hard to make it easy.

 

“So you'd say you have a grudge against men. Is that it?”

 

Her laughter came as easily as her smile. “Of course not! I don't hold grudges, detective! I don't hate Alan for his choices. I was heartbroken that he couldn't find happiness with me and that he'd chosen a lie over just ending it but I had loved the man at one point in time. You can't simply turn that off. There will always be a part of me that still, even now, feels affection for him. But I _am_ wiser. I learned from that experience. I grew. And it made me a better person.”

 

The folder remained closed beneath Lassiter's hands. They'd recovered the medical files from Spencer's hospital visit after the first assault and they now resided with his statement beneath the cover. Evidence of this “better person” sitting before him.

 

“Why did you contact Shawn Spencer?”

 

Rhonda smiled, her face softening as she looked back at Carlton. “I knew he would help me. I really was afraid of my ex husband you know – I wasn't lying about that regardless of what you seem to think.”

 

“But you told me you hadn't seen him in six years.”

 

“And I haven't.” She shrugged. “But he called me, the same morning I contacted Shawn. I... he wanted to meet with me but I couldn't face him...”

 

Carlton leaned back and placed his folded hands in his lap. “You implied you were afraid for your life.”

 

The chuckle was as soft as everything else about her. Even sweet; endearing. Gentle. “I never said I was afraid for my life. Only that I was afraid.” Her eyes shifted away and her fingers rose to her lips. He noticed her nails were painted a pale pink.

 

“There was another reason you called Mr. Spencer, wasn't there. You wanted to get him alone.”

 

The apples of her cheeks flushed pink, then, too and it made Carlton's stomach turn that the effect was that of an attractive older woman being called out for an afternoon of indiscretion with a suitor. She only nodded as her smile turned wistful.

 

“Please speak for the record, Mrs. Woods.”

 

“Ms., please. And yes. I called him for more than protection. I... I had to meet him. I had to know for sure.”

 

“You had to know what?” The introspective look on her face deepened and Carlton found himself leaning forward again; chair legs meeting the floor on all fours.

 

“To find out if what she said was right.”

 

She? “Are you saying you had an accomplice?” Spencer hadn't said anything about two assailants!

 

His hard question brought her eyes out of the daze she'd been drifting towards and her laughter was all the happily ringing tones that “bell-like” ever described.

 

“An accomplice for what? What, exactly, are you implying that I did, detective?”

 

“You said you had to find out if she was right. Who is this “she” you're referring to?”

 

Rhonda smiled widely then, and expression, finally, that skimmed away some of the puritanical beauty and revealed the mania that was the driving force of her personality. It was enough to leave a cold shiver in the gut and stir another dose of sympathetic horror that was immediately quashed under a pile drive of procedure. Emotional outlet would need to wait until he was off the clock and deciding between something in a box or something in a glass for dinner.

 

But then, at her next words, the quickly gathered reserves were knocked aside like a toddler bashing away a poorly stacked tower of wooden blocks.

 

“Surely you've heard of Mr. Yang.”

 

 

~

 

 

He'd nearly bent in half with relief that the only person waiting outside the interrogation room had been Chief Vick. He wouldn't have been surprised to find either Henry Spencer or Juliet or, God forbid, Guster and he simply didn't have anything left to deal with any of them or their combinations of unchecked agony.

 

“Locked in a box and that bitch still has her claws in him.” He hadn't meant to verbalize but there just wasn't a way to muzzle himself after everything.

 

Vick only sighed in a way that included frustration and agreement. “I thought one read through of that book was bad enough. Looks as though we'll both have some homework tonight.”

 

“Fabulous.” He'd read that drivel once, himself, and had been hard put to get through the single perusal and its less than attractive commentary on his person. Granted, he'd only rated a single paragraph amidst the chapters upon chapters devoted to the obsession of Shawn Spencer. Gangly, dark horse, with daddy issues deep enough to mine diamonds – puleaze.

 

But with Woods claiming the psycho's harlequin novel had been a blueprint to her attack on Spencer, there was no choice but to crack the cover and immerse his brain in crazy once again.

 

“ _There was so much passion on those pages. Who couldn't fall in love? The way she wrote you could feel the yearning. He was the perfect mate. But not hers. And I think she knew that. She so clearly wanted to see him happy. If not with her, then with someone. Don't you see? She did this for him! It was her gift! Her gift for both of us. She brought us together.”_

 

Carlton felt Vick's hand on his arm and realized he'd been rubbing both hands over his face for several seconds.

 

“Take a break. Grab some caffeine and a little fresh air. Meanwhile I'm going to call Henry and see if he has any updates on Shawn.”

 

Carlton nodded. He wasn't about to argue about taking a step back for a few. With Woods being escorted back to her cell, he had no more reason to hang around outside interrogation. Besides, though it was late in the day, he had hopes of scoring something flaky and sweet from the break room. His sugar vice was well known and most of the officers knew better than to clean out the Krispy Kreme container before the end of his shift.

 

“ _Who else could ever understand him the way I can? We're soul mates. Shawn will tell you that. I admit, we started off faster than I'd planned. But he's so full of life and vitality! When we were together, I found myself swept up in his passion! I couldn't deny him – not even for the sake of tradition. I'm an old fashioned girl so I can admit it's a little embarrassing starting out our life this way. Baby before the cradle, so to speak. But I know we'll make this work. And Shawn will be an amazing father; you'll see. Simply amazing...”_

 

It was a tickle coming on. Just a sneeze. Damn interrogation rooms were musty as hell. Carlton wiped at his nose and shook his head before climbing the stairs.

 

 

~

 

 

Two hours since he'd been sitting by his friend's bedside and Gus was twitching in his chair. He was on his second client visit, pushing the latest advancement in steroid therapy for menopause plus the standard fare of creams and pain medications. He could let himself speak and completely tune out while his mind traveled to another room that also smelled of antiseptic and Lysol. Shawn hadn't woken though it'd been over a day. It was sleep, of a sort, but not from his injuries, severe as they were.

 

Gus tried not to think about what Henry had said. Shawn had been tearing out his stitches. If the nursing staff hadn't stopped him...

 

Had it been involuntary? What if... No; Shawn hadn't known what he was doing! His mind had been somewhere else. He wouldn't have done that on purpose!

 

But then, as before, he thought of Shawn making that sudden detour into deeper water – not so long ago. Had that been involuntary too? Or... or had he...

 

“Mr. Guster?”

 

Dr. DelGavas had raised his bushy, old man eyebrows at the petered out silence from the salesman across from him. Gus cleared his throat and wiped out the images of a drowning best friend.

 

“So can I sign you up for a case?”

 

 

~

 

 

His face buried in the perfect waves of her hair. The scent had never changed – and he still, years later, didn't know if it was her shampoo or her hairspray that carried the mango scent. He hadn't known how badly he'd needed to see his wife... _ex wife_... until Madeline was in the room with him and her arms were wrapped around his body. And the moment they were embraced together they both were unable to hold back their grief. Madeline wept against his shoulder while he rocked them back and forth. He was silent in his sorrow; letting the tears soak into her hair while his eyes never left his son – entombed within his own mind and out of reach of those who loved him so desperately.

 

“He's hurting, Mad. He's hurting so badly and I don't know how to help him.”

 

She sniffed; her body shuddering as she, too, looked at their boy. “I know. But...” another sniff; her voice thick and wavering, “I don't think he's hurting right now.”

 

Henry pulled back a little at that. So convinced Shawn was locked up in an unescapable hell that at the single suggestion otherwise, he snatched at the hope it offered. “What makes you think that?”

 

Wiping her eyes, Madeline allowed them to step away from one another so they could move to Shawn's side. Her fingers immediately slid across the bed to rest on her son's arm above the bandages. They'd need to be changed soon.

 

“I've seen it before. When the trauma becomes too much...” Her voice shook and Henry placed his hand over hers while she swallowed. It seemed to strengthen her because the shake was less when she continued. “When it becomes too much, sometimes the vic... they shut down. Retreat into a comatose-like state. He can't feel anything, or see anything, or... remember anything. Wherever he is, Henry, he's safe. This is his way of protecting himself. He'll come back to us when he's ready. But don't worry that he's hurting right now. Because right now, this is the safest he's felt for weeks.”

 

That single assurance – the lifting of even that tiny layer of guilt, and Henry felt himself shaking apart. Moments later he was wrapped in her embrace again, though each had one hand remaining with their son – unfelt love and support. He wouldn't abandon Shawn again. Never again. He'd never make up for what he'd done, but he'd do everything he could to help his son from this moment onward. Shawn needed him. Needed both his parents. Henry wouldn't let him down again.

 

“I'm here for you, kid.”

 

Madeline tightened her arm around his waist. “We both are.”

 


	11. Hush Little Baby Don't Say a Word, Momma's Gonna Buy You a Mocking Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all of you Lassiter lovers - this chapter is for you :D

Two days slipped by. The book had been read and reread. Spencer hadn't woken up.

 

It wasn't going through those same, twisted passages, that had sickened Carlton the most but the fact that he'd actually found himself seeing how Rhonda had built her fantasy on those words. It was a door, as a cop, that he both loathed and depended upon being able to open. The insight into the criminal mind.

 

She'd thought she was rescuing Spencer from his loneliness. His loneliness as well as her own. It was almost pitiable until he recalled the photographs of Shawn's injuries; bruises, scratches, _tearing_... Wounds as ugly and cruel as any victim of that sort of attack. An act carried out under the proclamation of love. Love!

 

He realized he was brooding again and tried to pack away the emotional response only to find it wasn't so easy this time. Not with a glass of heat in his belly and an uneaten dinner cooling to leather on his coffee table. Instead of the numbness the alcohol had granted him before, it was, instead, tearing apart the mortar and brick that usually walled off the part of his mind least useful to him. He brushed at his eyes and tipped back his head as though controlling a nose bleed. It wasn't acceptable that this was affecting him so badly. Fine for O'Hara and not even for the fact that Shawn was her lov... her boyfriend – God, he did not need that intimate of a term jumping into his head. And no matter his grudging acceptance, even the term “boyfriend” still tweaked something unpleasant. It wasn't helped by his current state of dismantling.

 

Sniffing as the sting under his lids reached its peak before starting to fade, Carlton took another swipe at the humiliating moisture before grabbing up the book again. Bypassing the personal note “To my favorite, bumbling, blue eyed Bogart”, he flipped to one of the pages he'd marked with a Post It. The chapter was devoted to the night that Yang had kidnapped Doctor Spencer. From her perspective, it had been a beloved act of introduction. The highest form of respect – taking someone so precious as her way of telling Shawn how much she cared for him. Knowing, in hindsight, that Yin had been involved, as well, put a new twist on the kidnapping and, as before, Carlton couldn't help searching through the text to find any possible dropped hints that Yang hadn't been working alone. Why he felt it so pressing to make that discovery... He didn't know why it was so important now that it was all over. Yin was dead, after all, and the chances were damn slim of Yang ever getting out, regardless of the changed status of her culpability. Psycho was psycho in spite of the mask of victim. He'd seen what she was capable of and whatever Spencer had seen in her at the end, it didn't change the fact that she was dangerous to everyone she crossed. Her book alone had already proved what damage she could inflict even from her cage.

 

If he finally found that dropped hint – the clue that could have led them to Yin sooner – would it be justification or self flagellation that he'd feel? Was he looking to be vindicated or punished? It wouldn't make a difference now so what was the point? It wouldn't bring back the dead. Mary, the waitress, and all the victims from before. And it wouldn't save Shawn. How could they possibly have predicted what this book would do? Sure, the parade of Yinites had cluttered the Psych office ever since Yang's return and specifically because of that damn tome. He hadn't even been able to take amusement in the fan worship – the distress it had laid on Spencer evident to everyone. But it hadn't been illegal and Spencer had put up with it – passing it off with ashen humor and hiding his anxiety behind weak jokes and distracting hyperbole.

 

They couldn't have known that... that one of those women would take her doe-eyed fascination to such lengths...

 

But his mind wouldn't stop boiling with the notion that he _should_ have known. Damn it, he should have fucking known! Celebrities with a fan base, this crazy, nearly always required protection of some sort. No, Spencer hadn't been the recipient of any overt threats other than to his patience, but the number and intensity of fans had been escalating just the same. They'd started sending him gifts. Twisted trinkets – all bearing the Yin Yang symbol; whether painted on the surface or crafted into the actual shape. Drawings, some of them obscenely depraved, had filtered in along with the macaroni art, finger paintings, and even hand-sewn dolls. All of them had been stuffed in an envelope or carefully packed in boxes and delivered to the station to be included in the ever growing evidence bin. Of course, the credit for that all went to Guster – Spencer more likely to pitch some – keep others – and generally make light of the whole business. The few times when he _had_ turned something it – it usually involved leaving one of the creepy keepsakes hidden in Lassiter's desk or, in one notable instance, buckled it into the front seat of his car. How the HELL Spencer had managed to breach Lassiter's locked sedan to leave that eerie plush doll...

 

Carlton dropped the open book across his knees. Well damn...

 

 

~

 

 

It took ten minutes to get to the station. He hadn't changed out of his suit after arriving home so therefore had only needed a moment to slip on his jacket before leaving the house. The familiar quiet of the bullpen at night was soothing – muted conversation and a soft relaxation in the voices of the officers on the floor. A relaxation that tightened the backside of every cop in sight the moment the big dog clapped his heels across the marble and into their sight. Something that normally warmed the ice in his veins, now he didn't even acknowledge with a token smirk. The laser focus of his attention was in reaching the evidence room and the night duty officer that would no doubt give him shit for pulling him away from his tattered copy of “The Deer Stalker”. One of only a few that had the brass to provoke him, he actually anticipated a few rounds with the crumbly bastard. Anything to wash off the feeling in his chest – flooding down his skin like filth. He wondered if this was anything like Spencer felt every single day. He wondered how the man could survive it.

 

Given where his mind had fled, obviously not very well.

 

Grouchy McCoot didn't disappoint. Warmed to the confrontation, Carlton allowed the authority defiance to carry out towards the fifteen minute mark before finally shutting it down with a reminder of rank and the sort of discipline that went with that. Grumbling he'd ignored, nor had he made any attempts to help the old man with the, clearly, heavy burden that was plunked on one of the tables after his signature removed it from the stacks behind the counter. Grouchy, then, returned to his book and Carlton dismissed him from his thoughts as he flipped back the plastic cover.

 

The first thing he spotted was a file folder. One of a stack that was fanned out on top of the treasure trove of timers, letters, photographs, and other materials. A good deal of it had been liberated from Lightly's home; things he should never have been in possession of in the first place. There'd been a morbid sort of depression in retrieving them after the young man's murder.

 

He still remembered the look on Spencer's face back in that warehouse – cradling the body of the profiler in his arms. The devastation. He'd known that feeling of failure. These days, he lived it.

 

Careful to keep like items with like items regardless of the casual mess the bin had become, Carlton made several stacks across the table as he dug through the items inside. Most he dismissed with a spare glance. He could have poured over it all in fascination if he allowed himself. There was something dark and, yes, thrilling about the contents. No matter the emotional cost, there was no denying that the Yin Yang case was mesmerizing. Every cop he knew, even ones from precincts out of the state, had found themselves drawn to the rare pair of serial killers. Rare on so many levels they captured the imagination in the same sickly way as John Wayne Gacy, Jeffery Dahmer, Ted Bundy, and so, so many more. More than anywhere else in the world, the U.S. was a breeding ground for these creatures. They built upon themselves going from copy cats to killers and abusers in their own right. From Yin and Yang to Allison and Ronda Joan Woods. Like rats...

 

And the worst of them had fixed their attention on one man. Three had tried to break him. The last, he feared, had finally succeeded.

 

Out of _love_.

 

Another person would have added a barely touched dinner to the evidence in the bin. It would have been appropriate, given the cause. Just more evidence to be bagged and labeled in connection to the case.

 

He fought it down and finally reached the items he'd most wanted to examine. Tucked beneath a bundle of timers and a Cheerio bedecked letter, he extracted the first “gift”.

 

It was a plaque, covered with a poorly rendered symbol and, in total opposition to the spartan shape, an eye blistering adornment of metallic pink glitter hearts – dried Elmers glue adding that special summer camp craft project touch. One part Valentine, one part creepy stalker, the blocky hunk of wood held no special status other than bad taste. It wasn't what he was looking for. It wasn't _her_.

 

Setting it aside, he lifted out the next set of items. Bound together in a bundle were the cards and letters. Some from the same individuals while others a one off, they'd keep him occupied for some time. No matter. He had a cup of coffee and a tolerable chair so he settled in to read.

 

Forty minutes later and the stack diminished by three quarters, Carlton rubbed his eyes and bemoaned the empty mug beside him. While not really worse than the book, the open and very uncomfortable adoring lasciviousness of these little notes and less than little letters, some many pages long, were eating at him. How many of these women had wanted to get into the kid's pants anyhow? And was it only now, after one of them had succeeded, that he was actually seeing that?

 

Had Spencer seen it? Could they... could Carlton... have saved him from his assault had he only looked? Really _looked_?

 

The nausea was back again and swallowing wasn't enough. He made a beeline for the tiny restroom down the hall and hovered above the sink, sweat coating his lip and temples, until the episode passed once more. Given how little was in his stomach he was grateful to have avoided what would have been an agonizing bout of dry heaves. But then, if what he suspected was true... wasn't it no less than what he deserved?

 

Everything was as he'd left it when he returned to the room. Dungeon Master Tellers gave him a short, slightly amused glance, as he dropped back into his seat before leaving him in peace once more. Carlton didn't even have it in him to glare back as he turned towards the bin. A more horrifying container he couldn't imagine.

 

It happened to be the next thing he pulled free. Separated from the rest of the letters due to the item it was coupled with, Carlton didn't immediately realize what he held. The gift, itself, was unique among the other cheap garbage. Expensive – solid silver by the stamp on the back. Crafted by a master it had probably cost a bundle. Yet, like the other items within, it too, was shaped in the familiar symbol. The pendant was strung on a heavy cord, clearly intended for a male. And though he was given to beads and cords already, it was nothing he could imagine Spencer wearing in spite of the history associated with the symbol. But it was the letter that clinched it.

 

 

_My dearest Shawn,_

 

_Just like the purity of Yin and Yang, so is the depth of my devotion to you. Never before have I known someone so perfect. So special. You are a gem among stones. All my love for eternity._

 

 

There was no signature. Nothing to prove who had written it.

 

But he knew.

 

And, unprepared for the intensity, Carlton was slammed with another clutch of nausea, gut cramping around the pool of scotch and coffee in his belly. After a wild scurry, the porcelain accepted the weak offering he gave it – a dribble of bile coupled with retching far out of proportion to the dredges they produced. In his agony he wondered, panicked, what had happened to the upright and stern detective he'd thought himself to be. Who was this... wimp? This baby that couldn't keep his gut intact at the sight of a few lines of text? What power did that woman possess that she could unman all whom she encountered? That she could reduce Carlton to this wretched weakling spoke volumes of the horrid suffering Spencer had endured. And the cycle of nausea kicked his ass all over again.

 

He should have known. He should have stopped it. Should have done his job! Protect and serve. Where had that protection been? Drowning itself in alcohol and paperwork? A weekend of living hell for their psychic had been just another three days of monotony for him. He'd been yawning into his palm while Spencer had been screaming for anyone to save him. Losing a precious part of his innocence to a merciless beast. Losing more than he could have dreamed – an unbearable violation.

 

Carlton gasped and held his breath while his body continued to buck. He just could not keep this up. It was exhausting. More than that, it was embarrassing. He did not puke! Not even saddled with the flu. He controlled his body's comings and goings and like hell he would allow it to continue. Swallowing hard, he fought it back with every stubborn fiber. And finally... thank God finally... it stopped.

 

The tile wall was the best invention in the world – its chill wicking off the sweat and heat. The cold water he cupped in his hands was even better. He replaced the lost spirits and caffeine with the metallic offerings from the tap; tasting nothing but the purest mountain springs. He couldn't care less about the false illusion; just grateful to soothe away the raw burn etched in his throat by his own stomach acids.

 

He wouldn't think about how he'd face Spencer after this.

 

He'd found what he'd been looking for. He'd damned himself in the process but hey, curiosity and cats. No wonder he hated the furry fuckers.

 

He also needed to transfer the evidence to a different storage unit. While smaller, this second container was far more terrible in content. That this falsely virtuous woman had managed a level of evil against her victim so much greater than anything perpetuated by Yin and Yang was unbelievable. His brain couldn't wrap around the reality of it. And truthfully, he was too tired to force it.

 

Putting everything back where it belonged and even going so far as to cart the evidence back behind the counter for Tellers, he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and turned his heels towards home once again.

 

He didn't know if he'd sleep despite the red clouding his eyes. But however he could manage it, he intended to take a mental break for the rest of the night. He just couldn't take any more. And while he couldn't pull a Terry Wallis like Spencer, he could at least find a way to shut himself into something trivial and distracting. He had a healthy collection of DVDs in addition to a well stocked liquor cabinet – something he would be avoiding for the rest of the night. Scantily clad cops it was. Or, in the mood for something more substantial, there was always Hot Fuzz. Well he had all night and hours worth of action on disk so he didn't need to decide until he was plopped on his couch with a tall glass of pink salvation.

 

Paying no more attention to the skeleton crew, going out, as he had coming in, Carlton blew through the station and out the door. The heat was a vast change from the air conditioning but he tipped back his head and drank it in. The realness of the outdoors was restorative after the closed in sensation he'd felt in the basement. He suddenly felt like dialing up Henry Spencer for a day on the water. No doubt they could both use the escape. Maybe that weekend; depending on Shawn of course. If nothing else, maybe he could borrow the old man's boat for a few hours.

 

Sliding into his car, he sucked in the heady aroma of pleather and Armor All. Would it be so bad to just stay in there all night? His sanctuary – a closeness he welcomed. More like coming home than his own bed, there was always a trace of loss whenever he was forced to depart the comfort of his vehicle. O'Hara, aware of his devotion, was not above teasing him about it and had twice offered to officiate at the wedding. She'd never understand. Maybe because she was a woman or maybe they just didn't value the bond of man and machine in Miami but whatever the cause, he forgave her that shortcoming. And she wondered why he wouldn't let her drive.

 

Finally, one more deep breath, Carlton started the sedan with a warming rumble. Rolling his hands on the wheel, he backed slowly from his spot and turned towards the exit.

 

And without a single look towards the station, he pointed towards home.

 


	12. Wheel in the Sky

It was 2am when Shawn opened his eyes again.

 

Letting his droopy gaze take in the room and the sight of his exhausted father, he yawned enormously and then asked for a glass of water. In the seconds it took to pour a glass, Shawn was asleep again. However, it was no longer the frightening comatose unconsciousness this time. Respiration had improved, and within an hour, he started to dream.

 

Henry stuck close the whole time, worried that the soft murmurs would turn ugly at any moment. But fate continued to play mercy and the rest remained peaceful and when morning came, it shone down light on a sleep deprived parent and his waking son.

 

“How do you feel, kid?”

 

Shawn blinked and rubbed at his eyes. “Th'rsy.” He answered in a cracked voice before his attention turned to his bandaged arms. Face slightly puffy from sleep, eyes stared, confused at the thick swaddling around his limbs. Medication had reduced pain to a soft background thrum so Henry doubted that much was registering beyond the novelty of sliced forearms.

 

“Whazz-it?” When Shawn's investigation began to grow more tactile, Henry grabbed his wrist to pull his fingers from trying to peel back the protective gauze.

 

“Just leave it alone. You're fine, alright?” Fine as could be with whatever haze was protecting his son from the reason for being in the hospital to begin with. Now that Shawn was awake, and once the doctors gave their okay, they'd consider checking him out into his father's care. It never stopped amazing Henry – the value of a hospital bed must be high considering a guy could come in with life threatening injuries only to be sent on his merry way a few days later with a prescription for narcotics and a note to get plenty of fluids. Never mind his son could have easily been on a slab without the intervention of some quick thinking officers. One in particular.

 

Henry hadn't seen a trace of Lassiter since the day Shawn had been admitted. He knew Carlton would have been dealing with... with that creature. Still, even a phone call...

 

“Happ'n?”

 

Shawn, trying to push up with his arms and shaking badly, was also trying to wrap a lasso around the last several days with equally poor success.

 

Henry stopped the activity before he could hurt himself and raised the top half of the bed as a compromise while trying to think of an answer that wouldn't cause a set back.

 

“You, ah... had an accident... did some damage to one of the windows at the station.”

 

Eyebrows shot up and Shawn looked at his arms again. Henry recognized that deep curiosity – the desire to rip away the gauze to see the injuries for himself. He halted the groping fingers with a sharp bark and waylaid his son with another sip of water.

 

With Shawn occupied he thought through how to broach the issue of the scattered memory of the past events. But even in the midst of pondering it the problem was taken from him as Shawn suddenly gasped, inhaling a gulp of water in the process. Choking around the liquid, he leaned forward and hacked – Henry thumping his back to help ease the bad swallow.

 

“Kuh! God! Oh, kahh-God!” Hands started to shake and eyes glazed as the coughs bled into rapid inhalations. Thin sweat filmed across his cheeks and hairline and Henry found his hand crushed beneath iron fingers.

 

“Dad! Dad!”

 

“I'm here, Shawn.”

 

Now tortured eyes turned towards him. Every vile thing Rhonda had done to his kid glistened in that wet stare. Every horrid word she'd spoken – every forced touch. And then Shawn swallowed and tipped his head back into his pillow. Henry could see the cost in controlling his reactions as the panic was forced down. The whole time he gripped his son's hand – rubbing his thumb in circles over the tense fist.

 

 

~

 

 

He remembered it in a flood through his temples. The touch, the smiles, the words.

 

Father.

 

He was going to be... going to... No, God, no!

 

“ _You're going to be a daddy!”_

 

NO!

 

He blinked tears before pushing the back of a fist against his eyes – leaving his hand there as he sniffed hard. He wasn't cracking apart like before but he could still feel something shatter in his chest. And he'd thought everything that could be broken was already in pieces inside.

 

He couldn't do this; he just couldn't.

 

“Why?” More of a whimper but his dad responded, though the answer didn't help.

 

“I don't know.”

 

He rolled away and tugged his hand free from his father's hold before pulling the blanket over his head. He wanted to sink away from the hand that moved to his shoulder but merely shuddered. This was his fault. He'd let himself be duped – eternal trust of everyone and everything even when he knew them to be dangerous. Too many games of chicken. The scales had to even out at some point. It was his fault.

 

He shuddered again and pulled his knees in tight. If he could just cauterize the memories away! If he could forget that look she'd had while she was... while she'd been...

 

It was her lust for him. She'd called it love but there'd been none of the tenderness of that emotion in her assault on his body. But even the forcing of that sacred intimacy hadn't equaled the assault on his mind. She'd crawled inside and made a nest, feathered it out and wedged it deep. She owned a part of him now and would never yield it back.

 

And he was lost without it.

 

 

~

 

 

Crossing t's and dotting i's meant so much less when a report could be filled out on a computer. And even when she was reduced to manhandling one of the station's two medieval typewriters for those forms requiring multiple copies, Juliet was proficient enough not to mistype a single word. On the typical day. On the typical day she could outdo her partner in the menial task of paperwork in the same way he could still outshoot her at the range. But then, unless she planned to start bunking there, that probably wouldn't change.

 

Another typo and O'Hara tore the layered report from the narrow roll that pinned it. There were plenty of blank forms remaining so the loss of that befouled document wasn't costing much other than time. Still, time that shouldn't have been lost to something as stupid as misspelled words. She could do so much better! She hadn't been this flustered even in the aftermath of her kidnapping and attempted murder. She'd been more composed while bound to a wooden chair and dangling above the city on a wire.

 

She jumped when a hand touched her shoulder.

 

“Coffee?”

 

Carlton stood over her, face divided in two by the crease of his forehead – narrow lines on his narrow face. Since when did he offer to grab her a beverage?

 

“No, thank you. I'm fine.”

 

“Are you?”

 

And damn him for that question! Damn him for asking in a tone so unlike what she normally heard – heard in this way on maybe two occasions prior and when her world had been sinking through the floor. A tone that brought the cold dash of wet to her eyes and a shimmy to her fingers where they still held the crushed papers.

 

“Perfectly.” She confirmed through the whisper of her throat. But he wouldn't leave – his butt coming to rest on the edge of the desk, encroaching upon her space and drawing her eyes upward to that flat stare with the pool of concerned evaluation at the center. She felt her swallow bob against it and strove to look away before he saw what rested in her heart.

 

“Look...” Discomfort she wasn't imagining came with the start of his words, carried through the ones to follow and novel enough that she didn't take in what he was saying. Not immediately. “Look... O'Hara... I know.” He said. And he licked his lips and lowered his voice all bosom buddy secret – intensity filling out the shape of his statement. “I _know_.”

 

He knew? Knew what? Investigative process kicked in while she was still mulling that non revelation. What he could know that was so important that it required a whisper.

 

Oh God.

 

Shaky wipe at her eyes and a glance around the room. Fewer officers at this end of the station – not so often did anyone require the use of the ancient typewriters and the cubicle walls were a barrier she no longer felt stifled by but gratefully protected within.

 

“How... how did you...?” Did it matter? And really, in hindsight, had she even managed subtle when it came to Shawn? Fingers inevitably had connected while working together – lips brushing in hidden moments – touching. Always touching. Shawn was so... so tactile. He had to touch and he'd bled that need into her. She couldn't wait to feel his skin against her and these last weeks she'd ached at the loss. He'd made her an addict and the withdrawal was killing her.

 

And why did they have to be talking about this now? Now, when she was still raw from the last blow to strike Shawn down. She still felt the thick surge of vomit at the remembered words. Henry had been the one to tell her, though the older man had actually stumbled through the telling. Had... wept. How many times could one break before the shape of what once was turned to dust? Her own body had crumbled under the knowledge.

 

Shawn was having a child. A child whose life had been ripped from his body – mated to that demon and forever shackling him to his rapist. Forever sealing Juliet from a life she had barely begun to tease in her daydreams. He was going to be a father. His firstborn (forced born, her brain insisted) out of wedlock, out of violence. Abomination, though the word twisted. An innocent created from the destruction of innocence. And in the crafting of this fate, he had been reduced to a child himself. And she couldn't comfort him now. Couldn't hold... couldn't touch and not have him cringing away in fear. Couldn't bear to see his shame and self hatred that he couldn't allow her close to him. Had apologized to her for his reactions while unspoken, the plea that she leave him alone. And her own guilt and shame in honoring that. Did he think himself betrayed by her absence?

 

“You should be taking time off.” And who was he to even suggest that? When had he ever taken time off, himself, even when ordered? He'd barely managed two days after the Drimmer case – striding back to work with an actual bounce. They'd all been ordered to take time off after the Yin Yang incidents, yet, each time, Carlton had managed to weasel back to the station and somehow had convinced Vick it was healthier to him than brooding at home.

 

How could he say that his partner needed time off? They were cut from the same cloth – O'Hara's leave after her near death experience not so much a leave, either, as a change in venue. She hadn't sat at home with her cats but had continued to work. Paperwork. She hadn't missed any i's or t's then.

 

Her hands were still trembling and she dropped the paper ball in the trash.

 

“I can't just sit at home, Carlton.”

 

“I'm not saying you should.”

 

She scoffed. “Really?” Her lip twisted up in a smile that an outsider would judge happy – not seeing the stain in its sharp tilt. “Then what are you saying?”

 

Discomfort in the form of his head tipping left. Slender body edging sideways in a long shrug. “I'm- I'm saying that... that _he_ needs you.” The blossoming red would have endeared her at any other time. The suggestion he offered very nearly did. Had it not been clouded by so much pain.

 

“I can't...” Hold him... comfort him. Nothing to offer; her presence alone worse than her absence. She was already giving him what he needed by staying away. He had his father and Gus. He had his mother. His circle was small but stable. And he couldn't manage more than that tight group in any event. And Juliet found herself outside his world once again. It was a colder place than she'd remembered.

 

Carlton didn't pressure her. Really, it was amazing that he'd been able to offer as much as he had. Advice from her partner usually carried a gruffer, less realistic flavor. Less... hopeful. He wasn't a creature that was given to optimism, trusting in the blacker aspects of society rather than dare to hope that light could ever penetrate the night. He'd been fatalistic about everything from his divorce to the status of an upcoming traffic light. Of _course_ it would turn red just as he reached it. His fate was directed and built upon such consistencies.

 

But now, here he sat, assuming she could heal the tattered soul wrapped in the skin of her boyfriend. She didn't know, at what point, she'd gained such status in his eyes. Certainly not after the Yin incident when he'd questioned her ability to return to work for months after she'd actually done just that. Had it been callous or calculated when he'd suggested she man a desk rather than don her weapon in the field? His show of non support had drilled into her the need to prove herself capable of whatever they'd face, even up to her tormentor. And now she pondered the craftiness of her partner – the ability he might possess for reverse psychology. Certainly imagination was at play... certainly... But was the idea so easy to dismiss? To go from so caring to hard ass to ignorant bastard... those elements didn't mesh so well into one man and she again reconsidered. That son of a bitch.

 

And he was smiling at her now. Not much – faint as the stubble on his jaw. But she could see his guarded emotions where others only saw cold authority. It was a gift of their closeness. A gift he allowed her to have. She tried not to abuse it.

 

“I...” She covered her lips with her fingers. “I miss... him...” And damn it she hadn't meant to choke around that admission. Carlton didn't need her increasing his discomfort and she could see that she'd done just that.

 

But rather than run, he, instead, pressed his hand against her shoulder. Lips tight across his teeth, he offered something she didn't think him capable of, something purely honest and without fetters.

 

“Yeah... me too.”

 


	13. Shattered Reality

They'd only needed to keep Shawn for one more night, just to be assured that his condition had stabilized. Stable wasn't a word Henry would have used, however.

 

No argument that Shawn would be staying with him, though the kid _had_ made a weak protest and a plea to let Gus be his guardian. Both Henry and Gus had shot that down in a rare united front.

 

Shawn was silent now, seated on the couch and pulled into a ball. Henry suspected it wasn't from the memory of his attack, though that likely played a part, but from what had happened after he'd woken in the hospital. Henry had called Madeline once Shawn had calmed. The second she'd walked into the room, Shawn had lost it – tearing away from her and shaking hard enough to make the bed tremble beneath him. Without trying to speak to her son, Maddie had backed off. She'd been giving him his space ever since. She'd said she understood and had assured Henry that it was alright. But there was nothing alright about it. On top of her not being able to provide that, desperately hoped for comfort for their son, Shawn had yet another shame to pile on his plate. And Henry was running out of strength to keep up.

 

“You should get some rest.” He placed a hand on Shawn's shoulder; feeling how it sank under his touch in attempted escape.

 

“I'm not tired.”

 

But he was. His eyes were red from sleep loss and he'd nearly dozed off a few times already.

 

“You'll want some rest for this afternoon.”

 

Deep breath as eyes tracked towards him. “I... do I have to?”

 

“No. No, you don't have to."

 

There would be consequences if he didn't, but Shawn had the right to refuse. If that's what he wanted. And Henry would support that choice – even clenching his teeth around the argument that Shawn needed to do this.

 

“Come on, kid. Let's get you to bed.”

 

No argument, this time, and he even allowed his father to slide an arm beneath his shoulders to help lift him upright. The walk to the stairs was slow; pain still dogged at Shawn's every movement and it showed on his face in a creased wince. Henry kept pace with the limped steps and said nothing of it as they climbed towards Shawn's bedroom. It was a relief for them both to sink the pained form to the bed.

 

Arranging the bedding, but stopping short of tucking him in, Henry wished his son a peaceful rest before turning towards the door. He'd leave the light on. He always left it on these days.

 

“I'll do it.”

 

Henry turned back. Shawn was looking down at his hands; face washed out. Not asking him to repeat himself, Henry nodded. “Okay.”

 

 

~

 

 

“Just start wherever you're comfortable.” Addressing the recording in bland tones, Carlton gave his name as well as the name of the party giving the statement. Said “party” only looked on with a face that was equally as bland. Right up until the conversation was turned over to him. And then his head ducked down and his fingers began to push against the table – as though trying to dig through the hard surface and find a place to hide. But that didn't stop the words, softly begun, from spilling from his mouth.

 

“I remember there was a bad spring. Like, right in the middle of the bed. Dug into my back the whole weekend; I ended up getting a bruise from the thing. You know, the hotel should be held liable for unnecessary pain and suffering. Think I could win a lawsuit?”

 

Carlton let the distraction go, this time. But he'd known already that Spencer would be incapable of giving a straightforward statement. Even at the best of times his monologues were filled with distractions and red herrings. It was part of his nature and after almost seven years of acquaintance, Carlton was finally realizing that Spencer had far less control of his runaway mouth than the detective had been willing to acknowledge in the past. Yet another thing he felt it was unfair to hold the kid accountable for. Didn't mean he was unwilling to gently slap the young man back on topic if the length of tape on his recorder required it.

 

“I couldn't move... much. After she got me on the bed. Didn't know what was going on even when she started...” he licked his lips and stared at his hands, “started taking off my clothes.”

 

A wonder that Spencer could actually remember anything given the effects of GHB. But then, given the duration of his time with the woman and assuming he wasn't constantly dosed; that may have been the reason it wasn't all a haze. Great for Shawn's statement but not so much for his mind. Carlton said nothing on it either way and let the man continue.

 

“I don't... I don't know if it was the first time... or... or even the third... when I really... felt her. When... when I knew. I was... it-it hurt.” His chin shook but teeth held tight against the wobble and Shawn managed to smooth his features – eyes still forced away.

 

“She told me she loved me. That we were meant to be together. And... and then she started r-r...” Snuffled huff and red blush as he shook his head. “She started r-r-raping me...”

 

So far no other sound in the house – though it only proved that other ears were listening. Suddenly wanting to pause the interview to give the eavesdropper a piece of his mind and a section of his heel, Carlton had to tap down on the impulse and remind himself it was fear, not curiosity, that drew the old man to hover in the wings. Thank God Dr. Spencer wasn't home. Of course, being the far wiser of the pair, she may have dragged him away by his ear before he could intrude on his son more than he already had.

 

“It lasted... oh... maybe fifteen minutes. I'm not sure. I kept drifting.” A rub at his eyes with one hand and then Shawn leaned over the table – held up by his elbows. He was exhausted and Carlton wasn't sure if that wasn't part of the reason behind the fine tremors running along his frame. “When she finished she got off the bed and... and I think I fell asleep. I don't know how much time went by but when I woke up she was... she was on t-top of me again and...” He sighed and let the sentence drop.

 

“Would you like a break?”

 

No surprise when Spencer shook his head. “I'm fine.”

 

Yeah. Fine. Fine, in spite of the shaking that had yet to stop. Fine, though he hadn't made eye contact in nearly half an hour. Fine, yet the story he was telling had even Carlton wishing anybody else could take his place. Anybody. _Does O'Hara count as anybody?_ Okay, maybe not “anybody”. So he could suffer a few more minutes. It was doable. Thank God not as common and, true enough, easy as a murder case, this wasn't his first dalliance with a sexually based crime. Santa Barbara wasn't New York but it still had its share of pervs and sickos. And sometimes, he was the one called upon to square off with them. Just... as much as he liked being known for his near robotic lack of emotions, he was still affected by certain cases. Certain crimes hit just a little too hard. Certain victims.

 

“She r-raped me at least eight more times after that. I mean... the times... the times I can remember.” The edge of a thumb tucked in his mouth as Spencer chewed the cuticle. His nails, oft boasted for their pristine condition, were now ragged and sorta stumpy. Hell, his whole appearance was ragged though it was certainly understandable. The precisely kept stubble had been left to bristle out – half an inch away from becoming an honest beard. Still, he had a damn good excuse for drifting away from his regular grooming habits.

 

“I guess it was... Sunday? I woke up and I was alone. At the time I couldn't remember anything. It... it was one of the last times everything still felt...” Deep breath and the wistful look shuttered away. “I got dressed and called Gus. He took me to the hospital.” He shrugged and pulled his lip between his teeth for a moment. Another new habit given the nibbled condition of his flesh.

 

Carlton paused the tape and Shawn glanced towards him. Towards him but not at him. “I'm going to grab something to drink before we start the next part. Can I get you something?” Head shake and Shawn laid his head on his arms and closed his eyes.

 

Too hot for coffee but Henry had made a batch of iced tea which tasted like heaven following the sour taste that had been in his mouth previously. He stayed by the fridge to finish off one glass before pouring another. He poured one for Shawn, too, though the younger man hadn't wanted it. Carlton could easily polish off the whole pitcher so it wouldn't go to waste, regardless.

 

Break at its end, he returned to the table and set both glasses down. As suspected, Shawn ignored his glass and only sat up as the record button was pressed again – Carlton, once more, giving the opening information before inviting Shawn to continue.

 

When he spoke again, it was to tell of the second assault. It was even worse. No haze of drugs to soften the attack this time. And instead of a foggy image of a female whispering her adoration, the words had become cruel in their threats. No damn wonder the kid had been in such a panic over the thought of jail time if he'd believed that pile of shit. But then, Woods hadn't had to work hard to be convincing. She'd trapped him like a goddam spider with a fly. She'd had Shawn so twisted around... so afraid...

 

“I begged her not to...”

 

And he was still afraid. Reliving the trauma through his statement, there was a dull terror threaded through everything he said. And it wasn't something he would just get over. This was something that was a part of him. Like a new organ. Something inside that could be hidden from others but always felt. Always there.

 

“She never stopped.”

 

Only shaky breaths after that – broken with a hard swallow. Carlton started to reach for the tape recorder.

 

“It really was my fault.” The look on Shawn's face was fixed – lifeless.

 

“Spencer...”

 

“I... I didn't fight... I just... I let her do that... I let her-let her do all those things and I didn't do anything to stop her. I even hel...” He gasped, covering his mouth with his knuckles. Carlton wondered if he even felt the sudden trickle of tears that shed down his jaw.

 

“Spencer, this was not your fault.”

 

The man grinned, shaking his head. “Oh, but it was, Lassie. In fact, I had it coming, right? I never listen, never call for backup, and I'm an idiot. So you could say this was meant to happen. I needed to learn a lesson, didn't I.” A sick mockery of the words Lassiter had thrown at him all those years ago. Shawn's jaw was shaking and his eyes stared down at the table.

 

Whatever well he unearthed his self-control from, Spencer latched onto it like a lifeline – eyes closing tight for just a moment, spilling more tears, before they opened again. The lost expression was gone, replaced by a blank emptiness that was far, far worse.

 

“She was just so...” Shawn swiped as his eyes, a nearly violent motion that did nothing to clear them as fresh wetness skated down his face. “Her eyes. She... she reminded...” he curled inward, arms wrapping around his middle and knees drawing close – sniffling hard and looking so much like a small child that the next words he spoke exposed a betrayal to his soul far deeper than Carlton could have dreamed.

 

“She looked like my... my... m-mom...” The last word was choked off as Shawn suddenly lurched forward; one hand snatching out for the table's edge as he barked a harsh rasp, dry heaving and fighting the impulse to vomit.

 

Carlton quickly braced up shaking shoulders. “Woah, woah, woah, it's okay. Here, put your head down – that's it.” Helping Shawn balance his elbows on his knees, he guided his head down between them as the young man wobbled in his seat.

 

That he'd had the same impression of Rhonda was no help to his own hold on his gut – further threatened by the shoulders that trembled under his hand as Shawn broke down and wept.

 

“I f-feel so... so... worthless! A-and... filthy!” His fingernails dug into his hands and he bowed further, sobs wrenching out in fits of tight breath – a fight he was losing. “It's like... like my skin is... is...” He snuffed, clawed nails dragging up and down his arms. “I can't get it off of me... I scrub and scrub and it won't come off and, a-and I feel... I f-feel...” his sucked at the air and inhaled deeply, face flushing from his efforts. “I may have been drugged the first time but I knew exactly what was h-happening the second, and I LET HER! I l-let her t-touch me! And she did it again and a-again and,” he gulped and shook his head in a violent move – drops scattering, “I didn't f-fight her! I-I'm-I'm a monster, Lassie I-I,” another keening sound cut off his words and he shook as he whimpered through another rough swallow. “I... I g-g-got... I g-got... off on it! I-I...” Lips were bit between his teeth as the shaking grew worse from the withheld cries – another swallow barely buying him another few seconds. “I did this to myself!” The last of it left him in a miserable wobble – busted and bandaged hands rising up to dig into his hair – viciously tugging at strands hard enough that they broke in his grip.

 

Carlton automatically reached out to stop the self mutilation only to have the man lurch from him – curling down into a ball as he cringed from the contact.

 

“Spencer, dammit, now you listen to me! I'm going to keep saying this until you believe it. This. Was not. Your fault! The only monster is that woman for what she did to you.” His voice cracked through the words but there was too much momentum to stop the building shake. Too much pain within the tiny world they shared to hide anything now from the wretched being across from him or the father he knew was hidden at the top of the stairs. “And swear to God, she'll pay for it, I promise you that! What happened; you couldn't help! And an orgasm doesn't mean you wanted it!”

 

Shawn's face went bright red before losing nearly all color at the reminder of his humiliation. But then his arms dropped to wrap around his knees and he stared at the floor, looking every bit the child caught with his hand buried to the elbow in a canister of snickerdoodles.

 

“You don't get it.” He whispered. He sniffed and rubbed his sleeve beneath his running nose. “There was nothing involuntary about it. When I say I did it to myself...” He gulped, sniffing again. “I _m-made_ myself come.” He refused to look up. Exhausted, he let his head drop to his knees. “So tell me again how I'm not a monster.”

 

~

 

 

He hadn't meant to go silent but what Spencer had said had ripped out any response. He just did not know how on earth to console the man after that. And he knew what a mistake his lack of response was within seconds. Spencer had been waiting for him to speak. Probably hoping to hear anything – fucking _anything_ that would assure him that he wasn't what he believed himself to be. But in that tiny window allotted, when all that filled the room were his own breaths, it was judgement that he heard instead. And Carlton nearly felt the wall that slammed down between them as Shawn shoved to unsteady feet and half tripped in his flight from the kitchen and out the door.

 

By the time Carlton moved to follow, Shawn had walked to the edge of the property and was holding himself upright with one hand braced on the trunk of a tree; looking out towards the water.

 

“You aren't a monster. You did whatever you had to do to get through an... unspeakable experience.”

 

Too little too late though. What he should have said back in the kitchen, when there may, possibly, have had a chance of being heard, only struck against the shell that had crusted around the young man in the last few minutes. So close to the edge, all the time, and so ready to cast himself as the villain. Carlton wondered if his words, honestly, would have mattered; regardless of when he'd spoken them.

 

“I thought... I thought if I just... gave in... gave h-her what she wanted that...” He sniffed, curling his fingers against the bark, “it wouldn't... hurt so much. That... that may-m-maybe it wouldn't be so bad, you know?” His words became throaty and strained as he looked back; actually looked at Carlton for a spare second before turning back to the waves.

 

And then his voice broke, high and trembling; impossible to contain what consumed him. “She stole ev-everything! And-and I don't... I don't even k-know how to live anymore!” Legs giving out, his slid to the ground – Carlton following the motion with hands prepared to catch him rather than risk a head injury. But the tree provided enough support and, instead, he simply crouched next to the kid as he wrapped his arms around himself and sobbed.

 

Moving around to face the shuddering body, Carlton felt the ongoing awkwardness explode to new heights. Till that moment he'd been working with the Juliet O'Hara Handbook of Sensitivity. Sure, he'd also taken courses on how to best manage victims of assault, required for someone in his position as Head Detective. He had plenty of by the book on comforting, soothing, and when and where to offer a shoulder to cry on should that horrible eventuality be required of him. He knew the word if not the letter of how to proceed in every instance. He was an A plus student and could have been valedictorian if “Special Investigative Topics: Sexual Assault" offered diplomas.

 

So, of course, when faced with chapter eight in flesh and blood... he had no idea what to do. More than that, he didn't want the job.

 

He had what he needed. Time to return responsibility to someone capable of handling it. A few back pats to get the guy through his statement was a universe away from soothing a near panic attack – which this was fast growing towards given the whimpers that were starting to thread through the tears. _Dammit Henry,_ _ **now**_ _you go AWOL?_ Shawn was falling apart and Carlton was at a loss...

 

“ _I'm fine, Carlton.”_

 

“ _Are you?”_

 

“ _If everyone would just leave me alone!”_

 

“ _O'Hara...”_

 

“ _I'm fine...”_

 

“ _You don't have to be...”_

 

But he did have experience in this. He'd had to do it before on a cold morning at the top of a tower and God that sounded way too much like a pithy Disney romance. If only they'd actually killed the fucking dragon then and there. Since when did happily ever after include trauma counseling? Not to mention the wicked witch wasn't supposed to have a best seller and a recovery program. The truth was, Snow White had been a victim of child abuse. Sleeping Beauty? Witness protection. Rapunzel and Cinderella had shown classic signs of Stockholm syndrome and the Little Mermaid? Well she'd just been a spoiled and entitled brat. But hey, throw in a dose of statutory rape and everything turned to damn rainbows and butterflies. Lesson learned kids. You want your parents to love and respect you? Give 'em the finger and demand your independence. Oh, and be sure to hook up with the first guy to tell you you're pretty. And O'Hara wondered why he hated the whole franchise. Far as he was concerned, old Walt was a perverted son of a bitch and could feel free to cram a hooting mouse up his ass.

 

Carlton rubbed his eyes.

 

Offering his partner a shoulder had gone against familiar and comfortable in a giant way. And yet, had been one of the most... precious... and rewarding moments he'd ever shared with anyone other than his wife. Maybe even including his wife given how infrequently... never... that he'd opened up to Victoria. And it had helped. It had helped them both. It really hadn't been as complicated as he'd feared – opening a crease in his personality to be a support to someone else. Besides, he had nothing else left on the table.

 

Not certain if it would actually help in this case and ready for a defensive response if it failed as he expected, Carlton eased one arm across Shawn's shoulders while placing his other hand on the back of the kid's head.

 

And then he nearly toppled in the dirt at the force with which Shawn latched on to him – arms wrapping him back in a desperate cling. Thank goodness for the layer of heavy wool because Shawn surely would have drawn blood otherwise when his fingers clawed into Carlton's jacket.

 

“It's okay. It's okay.” The words were actually harder to offer than the hug. Who the hell was he to say that? How could it possibly be okay? It was a false balm and, in some ways, a cruel one. But apparently Spencer was desperate to have someone lie to him given his choked response.

 

“Tell me it isn't real! Please, Lassie! She... she isn't... I-I can't take... I can't b-be a fa... a f-fa.... God please say it's not real!” The rest was a muffled mess with his face crushed to Carlton's shoulder – broken apart with hitched gasps as the last trace of control slipped away. And it was in those seconds that Carlton felt his own control shiver wildly beneath him – feet sliding on ice and a fall inevitable. He'd lost a few tears when he'd comforted his partner, but that had been okay. He'd been exhausted and stressed out beyond what his limits could handle. And it had been his _partner_. He hadn't even been ashamed. But to feel that unfamiliar sting, now, was horrifying. Sure, he'd felt sympathy for Spencer. The kid had been through something that was devastating. But Carlton wasn't in the habit of pulling a Guster for every sad case that slid into his In box. What the hell was wrong with him?

 

“I got him.”

 

Oh thank God. Perfect timing. Okay, maybe not – the bastard could have stepped it up by about ten minutes. Still, Carlton would be willing to permanently remove Henry from his Crap List simply to pass the weeping burden into the arms of his father. Carlton should never have been the one to take on that duty when the appropriate individual had been on the scene.

 

“Dad-” The tiny, shivering whimper squeezed out between gasps as Shawn was loosened from his current support before being wrapped in another. In the moment when Shawn was between them, Carlton met Henry's eyes. It was one of those moments of clarity. _So this is what being a father is like_. It should have been horrifying considering the “child” in this bit of epiphany. Instead, it was coupled with a strange ache. He nodded to the older man and the moment ended. He could damn near feel the whiplash from the severed responsibility.

 

They stood together – Henry wobbling as he had to carry up the weight of his son aside from his own. Carlton noted that the knees of his dress pants were ruined.

 

“Come on, kiddo, let's get inside.”

 

The hyperventilation had begun to slow and Shawn nodded jerkily. Carlton followed them. He needed to collect his tape recorder and briefcase.

 

No surprise that, once inside, Henry continued on up the stairs – Shawn sagging against him. The need to sleep had overcome the need to cry and the kid was already blinking and nodding his head against his father's chest. He'd probably be out before he even reached his bed.

 

The tape recorder was still running, forgotten, and Carlton tapped the button to shut it off before stowing it away. He looked back up the stairs. He'd heard a door open and shut. Henry wouldn't be returning for a while. Not until he knew Shawn was completely settled. It was fine by Carlton – he had no need to say goodbye. Besides, he'd already had plenty of awkward for the day. He was more than capable of letting himself out.

 


	14. Lift Me Up My Soul's So Hollow

“No...”

 

“No don't... don't...”

 

“NO!”

 

Shawn clawed backward, away from the hands grabbing at his shoulders; gasping and wincing at the light blurring his vision.

 

He was alone.

 

He'd felt those hands as clearly as he felt the bed beneath his legs – a soft surface suddenly as revolting to him as the memory of that touch and he scrambled to remove his body from the mattress. Rubbing his arms, he made for the door and eased it open. The rest of the house was dark. No sounds so dad must be in bed. Mom was still staying at the hotel and Shawn felt a throb of guilt at how he'd reacted to her. As if she needed another reason to keep her distance from him. He scrubbed at his eyes and sucked back breath until he felt some control again.

 

His legs were still shaky and he was overdue for his pain medication – not that Ibuprofen was doing a whole lot anyhow. Still, it did enough and, much as he didn't want to return to his bed, he was exhausted; the pills would help.

 

Well practiced on every creaky stair on the flight, Shawn made it to the kitchen without a sound. No light from the television so dad hadn't passed out in front of the set. Good, that meant the couch was free and clear. The pill bottle was on the counter and Shawn fished out two, washing them down with a slurp from the tap before heading for the living room. Not the first night he'd snuck downstairs, after nightmares had chased him from his room, he felt it easier to sleep on the battered sofa. It was... different. It didn't have that feel...

 

_Her body on his – each thrust pushing his spine against the prodding spring – wrists caught in her hands and he couldn't move. His voice a slur of protest – of pleading that was ignored as she dug the nails of her free hand into his belly._

 

His hand wiped across his lips. The pills might help with the pain but not the memories. Pivoting back towards the kitchen, Shawn made for the fridge. Four bottles shoved towards the back. He grabbed two and let the door swing shut as he returned to the previous room. Not near enough for complete oblivion but plenty for the nice buzz that would sink him into dreamless haze for a few hours. The first beer was open and half of it guzzled as he pulled his legs up on his new bed. It was a warm enough evening that he didn't miss his blanket and the cold alcohol chilled him nicely from the inside out. He polished off the first one in a couple of minutes and immediately reached for the second; sipping it more slowly as he dug around for the remote.

 

Keeping the television on mute as he searched through infomercials and 30s era films he finally managed to find something both in color and not involving cowboys or sultry romance. That it was also a comedy was a bonus and he settled back against a throw pillow while tipping back the last three quarters of bitter suds.

 

Nothing in his belly for well over a day had left his stomach a gateway to inebriation. Not typically a lightweight, no matter what his father claimed, Shawn could feel the dizzy pull already seeping through his brain. It was one of the better sensations he'd experienced in that last two days and he nearly felt himself smiling at the break from previous thoughts.

 

Settling into the couch, Shawn debated going for a third beer only for the length it took to accept his legs would never make the journey. Oh well, he was where he wanted to be on all levels so he'd save it for breakfast. He fell asleep pondering how beer would taste in place of milk on his Cocoa Puffs.

 

 

~

 

 

Finding Shawn on the couch, the following morning, was no surprise though the empty bottles were a new touch. Henry said nothing, though, as he cleaned up and tossed them in the recycling. If his son had had any nightmares the night before he hadn't heard him and he could hope that had meant a peaceful night. Granted, the move to the couch told a different story.

 

He dug out eggs and bacon, hoping to encourage more appetite than Shawn had shown the day before. It had been too soon. He should have told Lassiter to hold off a few more days. Woods was in custody and wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon. They hadn't needed Shawn's statement so quickly.

 

The phone rang as he was starting the coffee. The number came back as unknown but he was still pretty sure he knew who was calling.

 

“Maddie, good morning.”

 

“ _Good morning to you too, Henry. You didn't call last night.”_

 

Henry melted butter in a pan before one-handed cracking several eggs to sizzle on the heat. “I know, I'm sorry. It got late by the time Shawn was able to settle.” Plus he'd been exhausted himself and had dragged himself to bed with no thought in his head other than passing out.

 

A forgiving sigh on the other end; Maddie had stopped holding grudges a long time ago. _“It's alright. How is he doing?”_

 

Turning the heat down on the cooking eggs, Henry moved towards the living room to peer in on his son. Shawn had rolled to his stomach – his shirt rucked up to his chest where he clutched a pillow. The endearing aspect was shattered, however, by the dark bruises on his lower belly and the jagged scabs on his arms. Henry had to turn away again before he could speak.

 

“He seems fine. He slept through the night.”

 

“ _Henry...”_

 

Burnt breakfast pulled Henry back towards the kitchen and he swore at the threads of smoke rising from the pan. The handle had grown hot, as well, and he cursed again as he sucked on scalded fingers a moment before digging out a towel to aid in removing the pan from the heat.

 

“ _Henry?”_

 

Rather than exasperated, now, Madeline just sounded worried.

 

“I'm fine – just some charred eggs.” Steam boiled when he stuck the pan in the sink and hit it with water. The whole kitchen stank.

 

“Oh God – you aren't gonna make me eat that, are you?”

 

Henry looked up quickly to see his sleep ruffled son hovering near the table.

 

Too much on his plate, so to speak, Henry shoved the phone into Shawn's hands. “Here, talk to your mother.”

 

Shawn, still holding his pillow in one hand, dropped into a chair as he tucked the phone against his ear.

 

“Mom, dad's trying to poison me...”

 

Ignoring the complaints and whining going on at his back, Henry returned to breakfast duties. He wanted to give himself a back pat for the two birds he'd just killed. Getting out from under explaining himself to his ex wife while simultaneously easing her fears about her son by letting her speak to him. An added bonus was getting Shawn talking to his mother after their rough start back at the hospital. The kid sounded okay, now, and that was enough for Henry as he started a new batch of eggs in a fresh skillet.

 

He couldn't blame the kid for his reaction. Not after hearing what he'd told Lassiter yesterday. Henry had been trapped between listening and retreating to his room until it was over. It had been agony to eavesdrop on all the ways his son had been violated. But, just as he'd been unable to close himself off from the panicked confession a week ago at the station, he hadn't been able to drag himself from the stairway the day before. He _had_ to know.

 

Shawn sounded calm, now, though. He was speaking easily to Maddie – no trace of stress in his tone.

 

Henry flipped bacon and considered mixing up some pancakes. However, the eggs were nearly done and would be cold by the time he heated up a griddle. He'd save the pancakes for the following morning.

 

He heard the soft tap of the phone settling on the table behind him as Shawn ended his conversation. Glancing back he saw that Shawn had laid his head on his arms and closed his eyes. He looked beat. Whatever sleep he managed hadn't been enough. Hadn't been enough for many days. Turning back to the skillet, Henry turned off the heat and plated up breakfast for the two of them. Setting Shawn's plate on the table, he reached out and gently shook his shoulder. Shawn jerked before lifting his head.

 

“Time to eat.” Henry gestured towards the loaded plate before settling into a chair beside him.

 

Shawn looked down at the scrambled eggs and bacon; swallowing before brushing a hand across his lips. “Looks great.” He whispered before swallowing again.

 

Henry studied the pale lips and sickly flush before sighing and grabbing the plate back again.

 

“How about cereal.”

 

Shawn rubbed his eyes. “Yeah.”

 

Pitching the eggs and bacon, Henry dug around through the mix of granola and Fruity Puffs before settling on Special K. If Shawn felt nauseous then the milder the better. Pouring a glass of juice as well he brought the substitute breakfast back to the table – once more waking his dozing son.

 

“See if you can eat a bit and then you can take a nap, alright?”

 

Just a nod but at least Shawn took a spoonful without wrinkling his lips. His own eggs now cold, Henry ate without a lot of enjoyment while letting his attention travel between the morning paper and the silently munching young man to his left.

 

Shawn, showing an uncharacteristic obliviousness to his surroundings, seemed unaware of the attention. His eyes gazed without interest towards the French doors and the strip of scenery visible through the curtains. He ate because food had been put in front of him but Henry wondered if he tasted any of it. But at least he was getting some calories. Still, he couldn't live on cereal and unless he wanted to start drinking Ensure, they'd need to find something he would, or could, eat.

 

Shawn finished and pushed away his bowl. Soon after his head was pillowed on his arms again. Henry set down the paper and forked the last few bites of egg before standing. “Come on, Sport, you'll get a cramp if you sleep here.”

 

He got a dirty look but Shawn roused himself, none the less, and made a slow drag back towards the couch. His walk seemed a bit better at least. Making certain his son made it to the cushions without incident, Henry returned to the kitchen for Shawn's medication and the glass of juice he hadn't finished. Currently he was on antibiotics, pain medication, and a handful of preventative meds that Henry didn't want to spend a lot of time thinking about. The implications made him shudder. They were also the source of Shawn's continued nausea and as soon as he saw them he made a face.

 

“Can't we just skip it once?”

 

“No chance. It's just for a few more weeks.”

 

Not much consolation but, without arguing further, Shawn took the small pile and shoveled them in with a gulp of juice to wash it all down. He made another face at the bitterness before lying back on the couch.

 

Of course, now that he was comfortable, he didn't appear as though he could sleep. Instead, he wrapped his arms around his middle and chewed at his lips. His whole body stiffened against the cushions. Feeling awkward, Henry stood to leave; not wanting to embarrass Shawn by hovering.

 

“Dad?”

 

He turned back to see hazel eyes staring up at him. “Yeah, kid?”

 

“Can you...” cheeks flushed and teeth chewed at lips. “Can you... stay?”

 

Rubbing at his face, Henry sat down near Shawn's legs. “Yeah. Can I get you anything?”

 

Shawn shook his head. “No... just... stay.”

 

Silence after that. There wasn't much space on the section of cushion that Henry had claimed. He'd been about to move to the chair instead when Shawn spoke again.

 

"Are you ashamed of me?"  
  
The question stopped him cold. "What?  No!  Why would you even think that?"  
  
"Because... because I didn't fight... I just... I l-let her..."  Shawn sniffed and tugged at the blanket in his lap.  "I forgot ev-everything you taught me, dad! I just... laid there."  
  
"You were drugged!  Kid, she didn’t give you a chance."  
  
"I wasn't drugged the second time."  
  
"She threatened you."  
  
"Yeah?  With what?  Some story that only an idiot would buy into!  Dad, I could have escaped... but I didn't!  I didn't."  He chuckled before shaking his head.  "Actually, I did more than that... Kinda hard to claim you're a victim when you actively participate."  He swallowed and turned his face towards the couch; red flushing up his throat.  
  
"You didn't do anything wrong, son.  And nobody would hold that against you."  
  
"Really, dad? I'm pretty sure Lassie does."  
  
Henry frowned, feeling something harden in his chest.  "Did he say that to you?"  
  
Shawn gulped and rubbed at his eyes.  "No... no but... he didn't have to.  He's a cop, dad.  Like you.  He'd never have let that happen to him.  Hell, he'd never have gone with her in the first place.  He..."  Pulling up his knees with a wince, Shawn wrapped his arms around his legs and hid his face. “Everything he's ever thought about me is true. A real man wouldn't have let that happen. Lassie wouldn't have let that happen. He's always thought I was a joke and I just proved him right.”

 

Henry placed his hand on Shawn's knee, feeling it jerk sharply as Shawn gasped – his head pulling from the safety of his arms. His eyes were red rimmed and wide and Henry could feel the tension under his soft hold as tremors shook through the limb beneath his palm. Shawn closed his eyes and tipped his head back and Henry could see the work it took to beat back the fear pumping through his son's body. Several breaths through his nose and out his mouth and finally Shawn lowered his head back to his knees. That one effort had drained him as his tipped slightly left the lean against the back of the couch.

 

“Shawn, I know for a fact that Lassiter doesn't think less of you for what happened.” It would be stretching it to say that the detective didn't consider his son a joke; though not for the assault but for the juvenile behavior Shawn typically displayed around the older man. It was no mystery to Henry why Shawn had chosen Lassiter as his personal punching clown. Maybe Madeline had some influence on this insight but Henry suspected it was what Lassiter represented to Shawn. It wasn't the fact that he was a cop. Not really. It wasn't even Lassiter's stoic and stern personality – though certainly that played some part. The need to see if he could make that facade crack. No, what Lassiter triggered for Shawn was something far more basic. For more emotional. What better target for humiliating pranks than a man who reminded him of his own father?

 

It was something Henry would never admit aloud, but he saw himself in Lassiter. Much as the man could irritate him, daily, there was something of a mirror image when Henry set aside his ire and truly looked at the man. And maybe he could admit that it was the pieces of himself reflecting back that were the sources of greatest aggravation. Those pieces that had caused the rift between himself and his son, and had driven his wife to leave him when he'd realized, too late, that his marriage had been falling apart.

 

And maybe that was the reason he never chastised Shawn for teasing the other man. In some ways, it was like a by proxy deserved punishment. All the guilt with none of the peanut butter crammed in his ear canal. He could live with that.

 

He wasn't sure if Shawn had heard him. His eyes were closed and his cheek was pressed hard against the back couch cushion. But then, breathing in deeply, Shawn lifted his chin to look at him.

 

“It hurts, dad.”

 

Henry thought Shawn was talking about his injuries. “The medication should kick in soon.”

 

Shaking his head, Shawn sniffed as a single tear tracked down the side of his face. He lifted his hand and pressed it against his chest, over his heart. “It hurts in here.” His face crumpled and he turned away again as his breath started to hitch.

 

Henry immediately moved from the end of the couch to crouching beside it next to his son. He wanted to offer comfort but hesitated, remembering the way Shawn had flinched from him earlier. But then it didn't matter as Shawn turned towards him, fingers scrambling over his shoulders. Pulling the young man tight to his chest as the stifled cries hiccuped into deep sobs that shook all through the slender frame.

 

Fists twisted knots into his shirt as Henry cupped the back of Shawn's head. Years had passed by where he hadn't shown much affection for his son beyond a shoulder pat – if Shawn wasn't doing his best to anger his father out of that emotion entirely. Perfect hindsight identified the boundary pushing for what it was. Shawn had been trying to see how many buttons he had to punch before his father stopped loving him – convinced there actually was a limit. Had Henry inadvertently made that belief real when he'd moved out of state without telling his son? Granted, Shawn had already moved out himself but Henry's escape to Miami had carried the trappings of abandonment. Keeping the secret of his return to the old homestead had just added another layer to the self deception that he couldn't care less about maintaining contact with his only child. And yet... showing up at his door, that smarmy grin in place and begging for help... It had been three years since he'd last seen his son but all the boxed up emotions had spilled across the dusty floor of his mental attic to the point of pain. He couldn't do this again. Open himself up only to face that disappointment once more. He'd locked the door and pulled the curtains and tried to convince himself he didn't need his son. Any more than his son needed him. They were better off apart.

 

But... but somehow...

 

Shawn had badgered, and resolve that had been wavering... cracked. Just this one case. One time and they could go their separate ways.

 

Okay, two cases, but that was it. No good making a habit of this after all.

 

Three. He'd never let on that he was actually finding this fun. And the trade off was free labor. The house was still in disrepair after so many years standing empty. And it had been too quiet with just himself to occupy it.

 

Four, five, six... ten... Shawn started staying over for dinner. They'd talk. Sometimes share a beer or two. Just a couple of men who happened to be related. Not always comfortable. Often peppered with arguments. But when Shawn stalked away, he always returned the next time he needed to trade favors.

 

A year passed. Shawn had begun to stop by sometimes just to hang out. No favors. No cases. Just... hanging out.

 

Henry found himself looking forward to those visits.

 

He found himself wistful when his son would leave again to head home or to some other engagement.

 

They fought less.

 

Somewhere amidst all the spats and pestering and shared meals... flying beneath the radar of his defenses... Henry had found his son again.

 

The first time he'd pulled him into a hug, Shawn had squirmed, but his arms had clasped tight just the same. Henry had felt the deep pull of a sigh from his son's chest and for a moment, Shawn had closed his eyes and rested his chin on his father's shoulder. The embrace had been something of a repair for them both. A reminder of something fragile that had been broken. The last time he'd held his son that way, he'd been sixteen years old.

 

No, they weren't touchy feely types. Well, Henry wasn't anyhow. When Shawn had been little, sure. He'd had no problem cuddling him, kissing his cheek or the top of his head, spinning him in circles just to hear his wild shrieks and giggles. Why had it been so much harder to offer a hug when his son grew older?

 

Yet, with Shawn creeping back into his life, it had seemed that self imposed restriction had become less and less important.

 

A pat on the back. A squeeze of a shoulder. A ruffle of hair just to hear the whines and whimpers of protest.

 

The weight in his arms was heavy, the tears wet on the side of his neck. The sobbing had diminished to quiet weeping. He held tight and rubbed circles against Shawn's back and between his shoulder blades. How could he have ever thought, at any point in his life, that he hadn't needed his son? How could he have walked away from Shawn like that? Old guilt and new was nearly enough, clashing in his chest, to leave him breathless. A repeating failure he refused to ever allow to happen again. Not unless he wanted to crush his son completely.

 

The muffled cries were beginning to slow now as well – the choked off tears followed by the feel of Shawn rubbing his face against Henry's shoulder. He had the strong feeling his shirt had just been used as a snot rag but he found he didn't mind so much. He had more shirts. He only had one son and that son needed him.

 

He wasn't going anywhere.

 

 

~

 

 

They'd made certain the room was warm enough. That she had enough blankets. That her meals were delivered on time and even offered seconds if her appetite was strong. Not the Watergate by any stretch but, still, the staff had been very kind and it at least provided some comfort amidst the unbearable.

 

She wasn't allowed to use a phone.

 

That, in and of itself, was a cruelty. If she could at least hear his voice. She was desperate for it. Bad enough to be torn away from his touch but to not even hear that brash and joyous tone...

 

Her memories slid to the front with how she'd made that voice gasp out in passion. How she'd pulled the most arousing sounds from his chest. Surely they wouldn't be keeping her long! Shawn would explain, she was sure of it. It was a silly little charge fabricated by that damned detective. She knew he'd had a grudge against Shawn for a long time and no doubt this was his way of hurting him. Forcing them apart just as they were starting their life together.

 

She rubbed her hand across her belly. She wasn't showing yet but she was convinced she could feel the smallest change to her figure. Soon enough, their child would make itself known. She couldn't wait to see the look of awe on Shawn's face when her body was ready to display the miracle hidden inside. She'd known it would be a struggle no matter what. Even with fertility treatments she'd known. But she'd also known that God would never prevent her from having a family. And He'd never deny Shawn what he most wanted in life. A child. Their child. Her gift to him.

 

The first time they'd made love, she'd known.

 

And she also knew it was only a matter of time before all of this was behind them.

 

Very soon, they'd be together again.

 

She just had to be patient.

 

Check off each day knowing it brought her closer to when she'd see her love again.

 

Soon.

 


	15. Away From the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn needed a break so I decided to allow him some time off to focus on the other members of his extended family. However, I promise he'll be back for more emotional punishment very soon!

Lassiter felt the pull in his back from crouching so long. He stretched, just the least bit, to ease the strain but never dropped his eyes from the metal door across from him. Barely a rustle from the officers behind him; they were merely waiting for the signal to move. On the other side of the building, he knew O'Hara was waiting with her own contingent.

 

One hand on his weapon while the other rose to the radio clipped to his collar, Lassiter addressed them all in a soft whisper.

 

“Get ready to move, people. On my mark.”

 

Bodies tensed all around as he straightened to full height.

 

“Go, go, go!” He whispered roughly, the group rushing towards the front while on the other side, he knew O'Hara was racing towards the back – pinning their quarry in the center. The battering ram took care of the lock, and then Lassiter was racing ahead, ducking at the sudden blaze of gunfire.

 

“SBPD, DROP YOUR WEAPONS!” Not that any of them were obeying the command, not that he'd thought they would as he squeezed behind a stack of crates and eyed his men to make certain they weren't bleeding or dead. All accounted for.

 

“O'Hara, report!” He peeked out from behind the crate guarding his ass and spotted two of the shooters before having to jerk back as gunfire exploded the edge of his barrier to splinters.

 

“ _Clemens was grazed but it doesn't look serious. The rest of us are okay and have shelter. How are you on your end?”_

 

Gunfire traded on the other side of the warehouse and Lassiter pulled around the side of the crates to fire off three shots – taking down one of the men on the catwalk above before ducking back just in time.

 

“We're fine.” He ground his teeth as he shifted his feet beneath him. Across from him, two officers fired before also retreating for cover under the swath of return fire. “Ambush, 10-0!” He spat into his radio. “Hold your position. I'm going to circle around to the Northeast wall – see if I can take out a couple of the shooters above. Copy?”

 

“ _Copy that.”_

 

Motioning to the men in his group, Lassiter received nods of acknowledgment back. Then, tucking his weapon down against his side, he edged towards the shadows cloaking the far wall. Cover fire erupted from the officers he'd left behind as they guarded his exit. He could see the shooters above but of the ones below there was nothing. He could hear them though, yelling back and forth as the other group of officers engaged them.

 

A matter of seconds and Lassiter had reached his goal – a small alcove that was a lot smaller now that he was trying to cram into it. Not good enough but there was no time to find another spot with this vantage. Huffing out a breath, he relayed his position in a whisper before raising his weapon.

 

“ _Lassiter, get down!”_ His partner's warning over the radio came in the same breath as the concussion of a discharge – Lassiter in motion seconds before fire lit up his arm. Ignoring the scream in his bicep as he hit the concrete, he rolled to his back and lined up on the guy above who was turning his weapon towards the man rolling on the floor.

 

Two shots kicked the glock in his hands and the man's body jerked back before tumbling over the railing. The other assailant also fell, seconds later, taken out by the gunfire laid down by the group of officers that had remained behind.

 

Dragging himself to the wall, Lassiter shifted his weapon towards the man who'd fired on him only to see a body sprawled next to the guy he'd shot. Then he took in the silence.

 

“ _You okay, partner? Lassiter, are you alright, copy!”_

 

He pressed his hand against his arm, grunting at the heated sting. With the wall as a brace, he pushed up to his feet – wobbling a little at the head rush before pulling his radio towards him.

 

“Just clipped me, I'll be fine. Secure the area and call for a bus.” He wobbled again but refused to allow his knees to buckle. It was a damn flesh wound! Not like he'd taken one in the chest.

 

Clap of many heels on the hard floor as the officers began to clear the warehouse, though one set of clacks seemed to be moving a lot faster and heading his way.

 

Gun still in hand, O'Hara moved towards him while keeping her eyes on the open floor. She reached him as the sounds of “Clear!” began rising up around them.

 

Carlton was livid – he could feel the heat on his cheeks and was sure he'd turned stop sign red by the time O'Hara got close enough for him to jerk away. “Dammit, these bastards were waiting for us!”

 

“Do you think it was Richards?”

 

The informant had been square with them in the past, knowing he had multiple counts on his jacket that could earn him a tidy few years in a cell. But he also had a wife and child and there was no doubt who he'd protect, first, if he'd been threatened.

 

“Possibly. Probably. Shit.” He'd really been trying to work on his cussing – mostly because of the dirty looks it earned him from his partner. But if any occasion deserved a peppering of sailor blushing foulness it was this. Another wobble had him pressing his butt to the wall to brace himself up. The worry shot his way quadrupled in blue eyes that had gone from cornflower to slate as they focused on his arm.

 

“Hey, you okay?”

 

She'd already asked and he'd already answered but she still holstered her weapon and reached towards the blood seeping through his coat sleeve.

 

“I'm fine – it's a scratch. Go help the other officers...”

 

“No chance! Carlton, we have fifteen other cops covering the floor. If you don't mind, I'd like to be certain my partner isn't bleeding out before the ambulance arrives. Besides,” she muttered as she peered at the wound, “I have no intention of doing your paperwork.”

 

 

~

 

 

 

It really had been a scratch. Okay, a scratch that gouged out a healthy chunk of meat but he wasn't about to whine about a little groove in his bicep – heaven knows Spencer had whined enough for the whole precinct when he'd taken a round through the shoulder. This injury, while it had bled pretty good, had not been enough to warrant the nail biting of his partner. Yet O'Hara had hovered while the doctor stitched him up, asking God awful questions about infection and loss of muscle control and even rehabilitation. Not to be snide but he'd gotten worse injuries in the file room!

 

Enduring her insane babble, the doctor had reassured her while Lassiter had silently put up with the needle and thread tugging his flesh back together.

 

He didn't appreciate the lollipop his partner produced once the procedure was over. She couldn't have scored something better than grape?

 

He signed release forms while O'Hara updated Chief Vick. He knew there'd be more paperwork at the station not to mention the requisite psych eval he intended to close his eyes and mutter through until he was cleared for duty. Hopefully no more than a day or two at best. Hell, he didn't even need a sling and he'd worked around one before.

 

“You want some dinner?”

 

He glanced at O'Hara with his hand still on the car door. She'd been doing that a lot. Asking if he wanted to go out for dinner, or lunch, or even just to hang out. The first few times he'd shrugged and agreed. He needed to eat and most of the time she offered to pay. Besides, the alternative was either frozen dinners or one of three take out places that didn't give him heartburn. But this had been going on now for several weeks and his “something is up” meter was red lining.

 

“I'm fine, O'Hara. I'm just gonna order a pizza and take a shower. I'll see you in the morning.”

 

“I could rent a couple movies...”

 

He recognized the desperate lift even through her casual speech and rested his forearms on the top of the car while covering a wince by squinting at her.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

She was learning a bit too much about acting from her boyfriend given the way too innocent blink she sent back. Of course, even without the question, it was the boyfriend that was the cause of all this to begin with.

 

“Well I was considering a comedy but if you want action again I suppose I could see if there's a Stallone flick you haven't seen...”

 

“O'Hara...”

 

Unlike Spencer, his partner had the grace and honesty not to push a lie when it was obvious she was hiding something.

 

“I just...” She laid her arms on the top of the car and dropped her head to stare towards her feet. “It's so quiet these days.”

 

She'd whispered that last and he barely caught the words. A loud gust of wind would have stolen them completely. Then she looked up and pulled her arms back to her sides. “Carlton, you don't want to hear this. I'll just go and you can eat your Marie Callender’s in peace...”

 

“Hey!” Walking around the front of the car, indignant at the brush off, he stopped short of blocking her while pressing his back against the passenger side door. “Who talked you through the Scott Seaver debacle?”

 

Juliet glanced at him, then sighed. “You did.”

 

“And who filed your paperwork while you were taking time off after the whole Yin thing?”

 

A start of a smile. At least she didn't wince, any longer, at the sound of that name. “Actually, that was Dobson.”

 

Carlton tipped his head. “Hey – I brought him the folders, though.”

 

Her smile was slightly less strained – though tension had settled around her eyes and didn't look like it was leaving anytime soon. “Fine, Carlton. Just remember, I gave you an out.”

 

And he might have taken that out at one time. But even suspecting what this was about, he still opened the car door for her, to gain them some privacy, before moving to the driver's side. As babbley as his partner could be, she was slow to start once she'd sat down. He stayed silent and tried not to scratch his stitches while she tugged at the hem of her jacket before rubbing her palms over her thighs.

 

Her gust of breath was the reluctant opening sentence followed by a head shake. “I'm used to living alone. I was eighteen when I moved out. My first place was a little shoebox of an apartment that I shared with another girl for about six months before she moved out. By then I was making just enough to cover the full rent. I lived on Hot Pockets and Cup Ramen for almost a year before I got another raise...”

 

Carlton picked at his nails and stared out the windshield. Generally, he preferred when conversations got to the point so they could fix the issue and move on. But that had never been O'Hara's way. She was a storyteller. She built up to the problem the way she cleared a building when the perp was hiding inside. Irritating, the first few months, he'd stopped interrupting her the last couple of years. Mostly. Occasionally. He _had_ learned it was best to not do or say anything that would make her story longer.

 

“I like living alone. I like having my own space – going to the fridge and knowing there will be the same amount of milk in the jug as there'd been the night before.”

 

He watched as her fingers traced down the side window – eyes staring out at the parking lot. “Carlton, I don't know how to be alone anymore.” Her voice was slight and strained and he tensed at the sound of tears lurking at the back of her throat. “I miss him. I miss his socks on the bathroom floor. I miss... I miss rinsing his hair gel out of the sink in the morning. I miss...” she chuckled, “I miss the peanut butter crackers he used to pack in my lunch.” A glance her way caught the slow, wet slide down her cheeks. “I love him. And... I can't...” When she looked at him, her throat was jogging up and down and now he was the one that wanted to look away.

 

Instead, he reached across the center console to wipe some of the wet away with his thumb. “You can't fix him.”

 

She nodded as a sob broke loose – the rest caught behind tightened lips. “I can't fix him.” She choked out.

 

Maybe a movie night wouldn't be so bad after all.

 

 

~

 

 

O'Hara was asleep on the couch before the movie ended. All that emotional fallout had cut apart her energy and left her with nothing to fall back on. While thinking he should have tried sending her home earlier, Carlton didn't like the idea of leaving her alone. But that left another distasteful choice. He didn't want to wake her but he also had enough chivalry that he hated leaving her to sleep on the couch.

 

Still, lesser of two evils and he sure as hell didn't want to risk a heel in his groin by carrying her to his bed, regardless of his innocent intent.

 

He dragged down a light blanket from the shelf in his hall closet and grabbed one of the pillows from his bed. Moving his partner enough to get her comfortable took several minutes of slow shifting. At one point, her eyes opened. However, bleary stare and a yawn were all that came of it and she was soon under again. Good thing she didn't sleep this deep on a stake out.

 

A trip through the bathroom to wash up and brush his teeth and he was in his own bed within twenty minutes. He chugged half a bottle of water with a dose of pain medication before lying on his side to keep his wounded arm elevated. A couple of days and he'd barely feel it.

 

He thought about that as he was drifting. Thought about some wounds that just kept bleeding.

 

He wanted to think that this wasn't his problem. It shouldn't be his problem. His partner was his problem. No, that made it sound like a negative thing. She was his responsibility. He looked after her as much as she looked after him. It wasn't some chauvinistic male protectiveness crap either. O'Hara could guard her own ass as well as his.

 

But there were some things she'd never been able to guard. Not something he was generally renowned for at the station, Carlton had become the confidant of broken hearts. Well, one broken heart at any rate – no amount of puppy dog pleading would earn McNab a spot on his shoulder.

 

Maybe an uncomfortable duty for some, he was flattered that his partner could turn to him for advice on such sensitive matters. She knew that whatever she confided to him would remain sealed. And he had the life experiences to guide her through the pitfalls of romance and the inevitable heartache that followed.

 

There were few subjects he wasn't able to discuss with her and he was a willing and stolid participant that would never shy from the worst the world could throw at her.

 

At least, that had been his mentality prior to holding Spencer while the man sobbed into his jacket.

 

It was different now. It was personal in a way that redefined the term for him. He wasn't the guide this time. He wasn't the holder of hands or keeper of trust. He wasn't on the outside. And he didn't have anyone he could turn to for help. His warehouse of advice was so easily taken by the flames. He watched it burn and felt the heat of it against his cheeks – smoke stinging his eyes.

 

He heard distant firetrucks fly by somewhere in the dark; the dry blat of their horns breaking through the neighborhood. It was an irony that wasn't quite funny enough to bring a laugh or even a smile. It couldn't compete with what bubbled and boiled in his chest.

 

There was no greater weight than to be useless. He hadn't even personally caught the bad guy. Sure, she was off the street but he'd hardly qualify her status as imprisoned. And if her lawyer managed to win the judge over with his plea, she'd spend maybe a handful of years in a comfy ward. Free room and board with cable to boot.

 

He rolled to his back and covered his face with one arm. He was sick of thinking about it. His part in this was finished unless the thing went to trial. But whatever hand justice had to play, he wasn't capable of swaying it towards what, truly, was just. He could arrest criminals but he had no power to keep them in jail; not until they reached the utopian ideals of Judge Dredd.

 

How many times had he wished for the power to play both jury and executioner?

 

Not something IAB would be thrilled to know, that was for certain.

 

A roll to his other side and a flash sting of pain brought back the shooting as he readjusted his back against the mattress. Minor as it was he'd still need a psych eval and clearance from the chief before he could return to duty. He should be glad they'd just cleared a case and had nothing urgent pending. Should be glad, but couldn't help grousing about the plummet in assignments. He didn't need the off time any more than he needed to be thinking about things he couldn't change.

 

He couldn't shut off the grinding process of his thoughts so, instead of fighting against it, he simply switched topics. Fishing. Fishing was good. Not as exciting as emptying a clip into a paper target but it was calm and peaceful and far removed from the interrogation room and the sweet, motherly figure romanticizing an act of sexual assault.

 

He could hear the metallic echo of water striking the underside of his boat. A school of bluefin had just passed beneath the vessel and he could spot flashes of dark silver as the large fish cut through the current.

 

One of them went for his bait and the line razzed out of the reel, nearly slicing his thumb where it rested on the delicate cord. Water slashed from a sweeping tail and pattered across his cheek and left arm. He felt the weight of the fish as it fought and thrashed – desperate for escape. Desperate. Pleading. Weeping...

 

“ _I f-feel so... so... worthless! A-and... filthy!”_

 

Carlton swung his legs from the bed, hunching to stare at his knees.

 

He didn't move. Didn't speak. He simply stared.

 

 


	16. Here but Now They're Gone

It looked... exactly the same. Well, Officer Bates had a new picture of his girlfriend on his desk and they'd started hanging Christmas decorations but otherwise it looked exactly the same.

 

Same walls, same columns, same light through the windows. Same cops carrying files and typing reports and drinking coffee. Same smell. Same sounds. Same... everything.

 

But it only lasted a few moments. A few seconds of feeling the motion around him, the breath of the space, before what was the same showed to be only brick deep.

 

He could feel the differences, looking around the room. Difference was something he'd once craved. He done everything his creativity could dream to make the difference between himself and everyone else a reality. Make it amazing. Dad had done everything within his iron clad set of rules to make him the same. The same but special. Better. Always better.

 

Well he'd failed on that second one but that wasn't new. Could there ever be something as better enough? If there was, he'd lost his grip on that chance. Now... now he was only different. Not special. Not unique. Not better. He was less. But he needed to be less. Needed to be less enough that he could hide in plain sight. Already he was accomplishing this... though. The glances that looked anywhere but at him. The way the passing gaze seemed to just sorta... skip... and move on to the far more interesting sight of the coffee machine behind him. Was this what the homeless felt, bartering their dignity for a handful of coins out a car window? Standing with their backpack and sign and not caring that they aren't really seen so long as they can get just one driver to roll their window down halfway.

 

His sneakers made soft squeaks on the marble. He scuffed his heel to hear it again. Officers greeted him as they passed – greeted him in that rushed way where they acknowledged he was there but didn't have time to talk. He noticed the distance they kept from him. Afraid he'd infect them, maybe. Or, maybe, just afraid.

 

He'd been certain of his purpose, that morning. Certain he had a reason for going to the station and yet, now, it was lost to him. He felt the stucco walls folding down around him and the circulating air was frigid. He shivered and took his first backward step.

 

He spotted a headful of reddish-brown curls. A shorter form weaving through the officers. She lifted her head. Cornflower blue eyes. Smiling pink lips. She was headed straight towards him. He back-stepped on his own heel and collided with the wall. A fumble to untangle his feet and he looked up, panicked, and... gone. She was gone.

 

His head darted left and right – behind. The only females in sight were Chief Vick, sitting in her office, and Officer Kris. Neither one of them had dark hair. Neither one of them had even noticed that he was there.

 

Why _was_ he even there?

 

He made it to the side doors before sucking in a breath. He leaned against them, weight pushing the heavy glass and metal just enough to crack them open an inch. Warm outside air coiled through the air conditioned cool at his back. Light outside so bright. So very bright. He squinted at the reflection off a windshield. Not as many people used this entrance – most preferring to enter from the main parking lot. It allowed him a minute to hide away and try to decide what to do next.

 

Juliet wasn't at the station. Lassiter was gone as well – still on leave until he could be cleared back for duty. His father wasn't there either. More days spent at home than at work to care for his damaged son.

 

Another push at the door created enough space to slip his body through. People on the sidewalk. An officer exited his car and walked towards the door. Officer Duffy. He looked up, shading his eyes until he could see the figure lurking near the bushes.

 

“Shawn, uh, hi.”

 

Shawn, hands skewering his pockets to avoid a handshake, nodded back. “Duffy.”

 

Why couldn't the man just continue inside? Shawn wasn't blocking his path and the officer, notorious for being late, couldn't afford another write up for tardiness. Yet he hesitated, displacing his weight from one foot to the other and studying everything except for the man he was obviously trying to engage.

 

Shawn saved both of them the agony of the moment.

 

“Look, I gotta go. Supposed to meet up with Gus for...”

 

Duffy nodded. “Oh yeah, sure. Well I'm running behind anyhow and...”

 

Incomplete sentences filling in the void and the relived man jogged up the last few steps and hurried inside.

 

Shawn leaned forward and wrapped his fingers around the handrail. Maybe he should just go back to his father's house. He could sit on the deck and drink beer and stare at the surfers. He could play Martin Brody watching for sharks while his father could stand in for Harry. He even had the bad hat.

 

But he didn't want to go home. Other than an apparent desire for humiliation, he'd left the house that morning because the walls had felt too close. Too quiet. Too dark. Too easy to think. And too hard to share a room with his father and feel eyes watching him. To see questions on the tip of his father's tongue turn into a cleared throat or forced cough. So... he ran.

 

Gus wouldn't be much better. For two friends who could talk about anything, they'd found it almost impossible to come up with conversations that amounted to anything more than elevator talk. It hurt. It hurt more than the memories, in some ways. He just needed someone to treat him like... Shawn.

 

Change of plans. Okay, not really a change of plans per-say as he'd have needed a plan first in order to change it. And already that clarification was making his head hurt. He wasn't used to arguing both his side _and_ Gus's.

 

As well, calling it a _new_ plan was equally faulty so he decided to go with half-assed and vacate the concrete stairway before another awkward moment with a well meaning badge could occur.

 

He made it to his bike and to the first intersection before feeling any relief at his escape. His new destination was ten minutes away. Still early afternoon yet the parking lot was nearly full. He sat on his bike, debating. He'd left the station to escape the excess of warm bodies yet here he was, about to walk into a place that was smaller, darker and equally crowded. But then, this place also had something to offer that the station didn't.

 

Dropping down the kickstand and leaving his helmet dangling off the handlebars by the chinstrap, he headed into the bar.

 

 

~

 

 

He was angry. Not just angry, but bored. Banned from the station for at least a week, as if the scratch on his arm actually meant anything. He'd lost more blood fumbling through the file room then what that bullet had managed to spill.

 

The first two nights he'd moping around his apartment. He'd eaten through four boxes of cereal watching two back to back marathons of Cops followed by the best of Clint Eastwood. Sleep deprived to the point of passing out hunched over the kitchen counter, he'd sought out new entertainment the third day.

 

Familiar figure to the bartender after spending two years drinking away the sting of his separation and divorce, Carlton had, in the last year or so, managed to keep his imbibing to once a week for the most part. Nothing like being a walking cliché of the boozing cop, he also had an image to uphold for the impressionable officers under his watch.

 

But he wasn't working now. Burning up daylight at the shooting range, by nightfall he'd needed distraction and with television no longer fulfilling the promise of mindless oblivion he'd been forced to reach for more tried and true methods.

 

Murky, musty, pleasantly smoke free save where it clung to various patrons, he found his preferred stool empty and claimed it before he'd be forced to fight for it. Chosen for allowing him an unrestricted view of the entrance, Carlton tapped two fingers against the bar once he'd caught the server's eye and placed his order.

 

He sipped slowly at the amber liqueur. Watching the comings and goings at the door, he supplemented his liquid dinner with a bowl of pretzels. He knew he shouldn't get roaring drunk. Knew he should stop before the hallucinations started. Knowing and doing, however... Still, lack of caution aside, he couldn't remember losing control after just two drinks no matter how well aged the Scotch in his tumbler.

 

Shawn Spencer was sitting at a table on the other end of the room, arms wrapped around the shoulders of two men who appeared to spend their daylight hours bench pressing small cars. And he was singing. Loudly.

 

Going so far as to rub his eyes with the heel of one palm, Carlton had to accept that while he wasn't actually _that_ drunk, Spencer, clearly, was.

 

He'd have left him there, belting out a sloshed cover of I Melt With You, if it weren't for the less than enthusiastic backup singers who, rather than chipping in on the chorus, looked ready to instigate a band war. He realized, standing, that better judgement was something frequently tossed out the window when it came to Spencer and his antic of the week. Not for any misperceived friendship or, he shuddered, affection, but for the instinctive need for damage control.

 

Two drinks might not be enough to make him drunk but they went quite a ways towards slowing his long stride. More than one overindulged gropey patron, gender not exclusive, between himself and the violence brewing ten feet away. He managed to shove the last drippy clinger aside just in time to snatch a very thick wrist sporting an equally massive fist before it could pulverize Spencer's skull.

 

“I'd advise against that, Skippy. How about you and Hulk Junior call it a night.”

 

Reasonable. As soft spoken as could be managed with the clutter of conversation behind him and the sudden, delayed “Hey, Lassadoodle!” from the unlikely damsel in distress. No surprise that the two hamheads instantly stood, going shoulder to shoulder to create a two chested, four armed wall a good six feet wide and solid as a tank.

 

Pulling his badge was so practiced it was out of pocket and shoved in faces without a thought devoted to the action – all attention on averting a homicide. “I am Head Detective Carlton Lassiter with the SBPD, back off or feel invited to spend the night in holding, your choice!”

 

Threat of arrest went a ways towards tempering flames and deflating egos, sober enough to reconsidering the brewing brawl, the two men sank away from one another after eyeballing the fine print embossed on Carlton's shield.

 

One neanderthal looked towards his friend before glancing back at Spencer; still stumbling through lyrics while attempting to stack empty beer glasses.

 

“He a cop too?”

 

Carlton returned his badge to his belt, tension loosening from his back. “No, he's...”

 

“Good enough for me.” Before he could stop it, Hulk Junior whirled, hands snatching to grab Spencer by the collar before slugging him across the jaw. The blow to the face, far from sobering, leveled the young man to the floor. Crumpled against the baseboards, he didn't move again as the bar suddenly became Roadhouse.

 

Patrick Swayze unlikely to make a heroic appearance, tragic death notwithstanding, Carlton abandoned a second badge appearance for ducking under another swing and executing a precision kidney punch while fishing out his phone. He speed dialed dispatch as he knelt beside Spencer, wincing at the smear of blood across his cheek – both feeling for his pulse and watching the flailing bodies around him for further threats.

 

First priority, getting the victim out of the line of fire. He eyed the exit and the amount of floor space between himself and the door. Only a few feet away but those few feet were packed with bodies shoving back and forth. On the other hand, after that first crippling blow, the two instigators had turned their attention to the rest of the bar and seemed to have no further interest in himself or Spencer.

 

The main brawl seemed to be contained among about eight people with the rest of the customers egging on the fight. Noting one mildly interested patron standing nearby, Carlton caught his attention with a shout.

 

“Help me with him!”

 

The man, cell phone raised high above the heads around him, glanced back and laughed. “You kidding, man? This shit's going viral!”

 

Badge up and out for the second time. “And you're going to jail unless you make like a pack mule! Now!”

 

The attempt to appear grudgingly menacing was wasted on Lassiter who'd, by then, hooked his arms beneath Spencer's floppy upper half. Meanwhile his commandeered assistant dealt with the end that could kick at any time the consultant soothsayer chose to startle back to life.

 

Across the floor and outside with only a few extra bruises from swinging elbows, the two men propped the insensate third member of their little band against the outside wall. The second he was free, the Grand Master of YouTube made to dart back inside and the likely fate that awaited lanky stringbeans that tried to play with the big boys. Lassiter snatched him by the arm before he could get his diploma in Pre-Incarceration.

 

“Go home.”

 

Clearly what he'd really said was that he enjoyed wearing his partner's best gray skirt while playing Guitar Hero. Shocked stare didn't have time to become belligerent argument as Lassiter pointed towards the parking lot.

 

“Go home or get maced along with all those other idiots when back-up arrives!”

 

Wind out of his sails, the other man mouthed off with something vile as he crammed his phone back in his pocket and stalked off to whatever ride had brought him there. Uninterested in the ending to that particular story, Lassiter turned back to the young man just starting to twitch at his feet.

 

The ruckus inside was worsening and, concerned about the fight pouring into the lot, Carlton tapped lightly at the young man's cheek, pulling out a moan at the prodding.

 

“Come on, Spencer. Wake up.”

 

He glanced back at the entrance as something; a body or maybe a table, whacked against it from the other side. Things were getting damn ugly and he really didn't feel like joining Spencer as a casualty.

 

“Come on, he didn't hit you that hard.” He held off from more abuse when the soupy blinks became a gaze that held steady for a few seconds. Leaning forward, he grabbed an arm to haul them both away from the cauldron about ready to boil over just a few feet away.

 

Immediately Spencer's eyes snapped wide, awareness roaring back in an expression of flat terror. He froze to the ground, fingers spreading out on the sidewalk.

 

Then recognition followed, the fear seeping away when he lifted one hand to rub between his brows. He pulled in a long breath and held it, blinking again as he looked around himself. When he released it he let the back of his head thunk against the brick wall.

 

“Why... are we... Are you wearing jeans?” Inebriation wasn't playing nice with this one, that was obvious. Though surprisingly well in control of his speech, slow but lacking all but a hint of slur, Spencer wasn't exactly at the top of his game connecting clues.

 

“I had a feeling I'd be involved in the John Woo of bar fights and wanted to dress appropriately, now get on your damn feet before this place comes down around our ears!” He was ready and willing and actively reaching to haul Spencer up by his collar. Eyes widened again, fingers tightening to fists either to lash out or hide their tremor, and Carlton backed down.

 

Diplomacy wasn't his field of study, something he equated with timid bean counters romantically attached to preserving the status quo as opposed to throwing asses behind bars and feeding the key to a hungry goat. Certain, in the absolute, that he could take down Spencer if the panic switched to violence there was no part of him, no matter how urgent the reason, that was willing to push it. The thought, actually, slid a taste along the back of his tongue like a lead sinker.

 

Hands safely away and settled on his thighs, he went with the only method that had worked with Shawn in the past.

 

“You're safe, Spencer.”

 

He was ready for a glare or retort – sarcasm of some kind. Maybe even a kick to the groin. But Spencer only nodded as he forced his breathing back to steady with a couple of swallows. He glanced past Carlton when a violent thud cracked against the door to the bar. The yelling and fighting within hadn't eased and once again Carlton itched to drag them both to his car and the comforting proximity of his radio.

 

Two things saved him the trouble. One, Spencer planting his hands against the wall and dragging himself to his feet unaided and, two, the blessed sound of sirens honing in on their position.

 

Within three minutes, black and whites, and a couple of ambulances, had pulled into the lot. Spencer was still leaned against the wall and had now closed his eyes and tipped his face to the sky. With backup on sight, Lassiter left him under the care of a paramedic before moving towards the bundle of officers starting to drag soused and embattled riff-raff from the bar.

 

He got as far as putting his thumb on the catch strapping his cuffs to his belt when a startled sound behind him spun him around. Apparently, just noticing the EMT closing in on him, Spencer had backed away from the man and was staring around himself wildly. His backward steps were headed towards the concrete parking bump. Lassiter saw it. The paramedic, still trying to calm the increasing panic, didn't.

 

“Spencer, look...!”

 

Carlton's job, the nature of it, meant that most of the time he arrived on the scene well after the disaster he'd been called to officiate had already taken place. There was usually nobody left alive to save. A grim but expected reality. Actually being on scene _while_ the disaster bloomed, flowered, and dropped blood soaked petals to the pavement was a whole other misery. Too late to prevent it, too far away to do more than watch, he flinched the length of his body at the very loud CRACK of Spencer's skull rapping against the tar.

 

“Damn it...” He ran back towards the two men now on the ground, on kneeling and one flat out on his back and gasping. That Spencer hadn't knocked himself unconscious was a relief and a surprise. That hit had sounded far worse than the one he'd received in the bar.

 

Kneeling alongside the paramedic, “Fred” assuming his name tag wasn't forged, Carlton crushed the instinct to reach for the younger man. He also crushed the conditioned response that wanted to question Spencer's sanity in the usual blunt manner. Instead, he, once again, reached into the depleting well of patience that hadn't been so frequently tested since McNab was preparing for his wedding.

 

“You alright?”

 

Spencer glanced his way, shrugging. “I'll live.”

 

Fred, learning from the blunder that had led to Spencer's second head thump of the night, also kept his distance while doing a visual and verbal checkup. “Are you experiencing any dizziness? Nausea? Can you tell me how many fingers I'm holding up?”

 

Spencer answered well enough, followed the finger, opened his eyes wide for the pen light, even offered to turn his head and cough.

 

Expectedly, Fred advocated a trip to the hospital for a more thorough exam. Spencer, just as expectedly, declined. Trouble with paramedics, Carlton had learned, was that they just didn't understand the concept of “no”. Whatever amount of good intentions urged them to push the issue it didn't forgive forcing a person to capitulate to their request under duress. A person who'd already heard their protests ignored in the most hideous of ways.

 

“Leave him alone, Fred.”

 

Fred blew air up through his heavy mustache and glared at the man who'd called for his aid in the first place. “I'm not comfortable leaving him here. He could have anything from mild concussion to a brain bleed.”

 

Aware he might have to repeat history and drag the man away by his lapels, Carlton gave diplomacy one last shot.

 

“Listen up, Gimli,” and already he could see O'Hara pressing her fingertips against the bridge of her nose – well it wasn't as if the guy wasn't short... He tried again. “Fred. I got this, alright? Look, if he starts bleeding out his ear I'll call you back just... give him some space, okay?” Better than he'd thought he could manage and apparently good enough.

 

Grabbing his kit and standing, Fred gave him a look that seemed to question Lassiter's ability to nursemaid a sick Raggedy Ann doll no less the poor fellow left in his care. Either way it got the man to turn heel and seek out a different hapless sap to tend; no lack of them at the moment.

 

“I'm fine. Just leave me alone.” Unimpressed by the running off of his EMT, Spencer had scooted back to lean against the side of a dented Camry, legs pulled up to his chest and head rested on his folded arms.

 

Uncomfortable in kneeling but not wanting to tower over Shawn by standing, Carlton chose to sit on the same bumper that had sent the kid sprawling in the first place. At least he was wearing jeans instead of dress pants.

 

“You know it's not my place to tell you your business but he was probably right. That was a hell of a smack and it wouldn't hurt to get checked out. Come on, I'll even drive-”

 

“I said stay away from me, Lassiter!”

 

Sudden, furious, Spencer's face lifted from his arms as he practically screamed at the detective sitting across from him; expression cold with what could only be described as rage.

 

“It's not like I need you to save me this time!”

 


	17. What We Tell Ourselves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another bonus chapter - I wanted to wrap up this little mini segment of the story before moving on with the larger story :)
> 
> Thank you so much for all of the wonderful reviews and kudos!!

On his feet a second later, tottering but keeping an unsteady balance, Shawn started across the lot towards the bus stop thirty feet away.

 

The words, that had been hissed with so much vitriol, froze Carlton to the concrete bumper. Spencer had been vibrating with anger. Not one for swinging with his fists, the kid had learned from the best when it came to verbal battery. _“It's not like I need you to save me this time!”_ Whatevertruth surrounded the accusation it couldn't overcome the guilt it generated.

 

And he did feel responsible. It was unfair, he knew that. He couldn't have known. Nobody could have known. Not himself or O'Hara or Henry. Not Guster in spite the two being joined at the skull. It didn't matter. Yeah, fine, so he wasn't a prognosticator any more than Spencer was. So what? That didn't mean he was blind. After his first assault, Spencer had changed. He may not have admitted to the attack but a first year who couldn't find his way to the station restrooms would have known the personality implosion went deeper than another fight with daddy. Had he been paying attention, then maybe...

 

Carlton winced on his way back up. The alcohol had settled in and his head throbbed. Not enough to effect his equilibrium but he'd be taking a cab, himself, unless he chose to thumb a ride with one of the officers on scene. A short distance away, Spencer was barely keeping to his feet. Even so, he made it to the bus stop. However, rather than fit himself among the cluster of losers hunched on the bacteria laden bench, he paused, hands tapping out a broken beat at his sides, before stitching a left instead.

 

Carlton angled across the lot, cutting him off before he reached the stop sign at the end of the sidewalk. Not hard to do even if Spencer had had a mile long lead, sluggish and uneven steps twice nearly sent him right back on his ass. More inebriated than Carlton had given him credit for, too, as he apparently didn't hear the approach at his back.

 

“Spencer.”

 

It wasn't a startle this time, though the end result was the same. Trying to spin, a move far too graceful to execute with a brain swimming in hops, Spencer's right foot skidded off the lip of the sidewalk and sent him careening into the street.

 

“Shit!” Startled by his own reactions, Carlton was just able to lunge and hook two fingers into the collar of Spencer's shirt. While the man wobbled on one foot, Carlton grabbed his arm and pulled him back to the sidewalk and towards the closest car. Pushing him to the bumper, he stood directly in front of him just in case Spencer tried to faceplant.

 

Exactly four seconds later, the listing man leaned forward and puked all over Carlton's shoes. Great. “For the love of...” Lifting one foot, he gave it a weak shake to cast off some of the mess. Mostly liquid, at least, observation that the kid hadn't been eating a lot of solid foods, beyond maybe a handful of pretzels. No wonder he was so wasted.

 

“Just... stay there.” He held a hand out in case the droop turned into a drop and pulled out his phone. Plenty of cops on scene to deal with the maced, tased, and suddenly compliant bar crowd, he was able to pull one of them off clean up duty to play Hoke Colburn to the crumbling Spencer and Miss Daisy him back to... wherever.

 

By now the bus had pulled up into the reserved lane and was loading some passengers while dropping off others. Deciding there was space on the bumper for his skinny ass, he sat down next to Spencer and hoped that the next appearance of Mount St. Vomit erupted a little to the left.

 

He glanced at Spencer in the continued silence. One hand was braced on the car hood but the other clenched against his belly, tugging and twisting the fabric of his shirt. The down tipped angle of his mouth suggested he was catching the flavor hovering in his tonsils. He spit, then grabbed the hood of the car as his upper body bucked. A few gags and a dribble of tainted saliva hit the pavement.

 

Aware that Henry would not think fondly of him if he allowed the man's only child to face dive into a pool of his stomach contents, Carlton wound his fist into the sleeve of Shawn's button up to keep him mostly in place. He appreciated that he wasn't instantly slapped away. Maybe a little sense had bored through to Spencer's brain after he'd vacated a few liters of happy juice.

 

Where the hell was Guster anyhow? Hard to believe he'd allow his other half to down shots with bikers and rough necks all on his lonesome. For that matter, Henry should be keeping better track of his whelp. Carlton was neither best friend nor parent yet he'd found himself taking that role repeatedly in the last month. And much as the skin over his eyebrows itched that his partner had shacked up with Spencer, he'd slow dance with circus people to have her pick up girlfriend duty again.

 

That wasn't fair. It wasn't as if she hadn't tried. Every lunch hour, during work, her first move was to call Spencer to check up on him. After work she would call Henry and ask him what sort of day it had been. If it had been a good day, she could stop by for an hour or two. A bad day... well, a bad day usually meant it would be several bad days and on those nights it was Carlton who usually spent the evening with her on his couch.

 

Not that he didn't enjoy the company of his partner... for the most part. As long as she kept her prattle to a minimum and didn't usurp his God given right to choose what program he wanted to watch in his own damned apartment.

 

Next to him, Spencer gulped a few times but whatever was trying to break free, he managed to keep it down. For the moment. Carlton could see his eyes had become glassy, though one had swollen in the last few minutes and threatened to become a hell of a bruise by the following day. He'd be lucky if he could see at all from that side.

 

A black and white neared them from across the lot. The officer, Thomas... no, Thompson, had agreed to drive Spencer home. The car stopped in front of them and Carlton nudged the drunk at his side to get his attention. The small motion threw Spencer completely off balance and another lunge nearly sent both of them down as Carlton snatched out for a flailing arm. Thompson jumped out of his cruiser in time to help his superior resettle the younger man. But Spencer wasn't having it. The near fall had gone a ways towards waking him and he pulled away from both officers and somehow found his feet.

 

“Leave me alone.” Not screamed or panicked, but a firm command as Spencer began to dribble back towards the bar.

 

This was a repeating habit Carlton really didn't want to keep experiencing. Absolutely rock bottom on his list of evening fun would be chasing after a toasted Spencer like he was a lost puppy looking for a pat on the head. He had to chew on the reaction that would have him dragging the guy back to the cruiser by his hair. He also had to dial down the secondary reaction that would have involved leaving Spencer to his own devices and recapturing what was lost of the night at a different bar, hopefully free of psychics and psychos.

 

He rubbed the heel of his palm across his eyebrows before waving Thompson back to his car. “I got it. Head back to the scene.” Only a hesitation of seconds as Thompson glanced towards the tipsy psychic and then he nodded and got back behind the wheel.

 

Carlton allowed Shawn a fifteen foot lead before finally rising off the trunk of the car. Swiping a hand through the grit to erase the butt prints, he was glad he'd given into the nostalgic urge to pass on his evening dress pants and go with denim. He'd left the cowboy hat in the closet, however.

 

Spencer had adjusted his stumble to aim back towards the bus stop again. The group that had been there earlier had been picked up by this point and the shelter was empty. Spencer chose the far end of the bench and dropped down like a broken puppet. Carlton followed as far as the outer edge of the structure and leaned against it, hands in his pockets.

 

“You don't listen well.”

 

Spencer wasn't looking at him. Carlton could see him pulling at his shirt again; twisting the fabric in his fingers.

 

“I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want to do.” He answered back.

 

A snort and a muffled rasp of a laugh. Spencer shifted on the bench before he leaned over his knees and wrapped his arms around himself.

 

“Yeah.”

 

No idea what Spencer was thinking and uncomfortable with the metal edge digging into his back, Carlton took the risk of sitting on the opposite end of the bench. He nudged a blackened beer can away with the toe of his shoe and tried not to investigate too deeply the varied scents invading his space.

 

It was quiet on this end of the lot. He could still hear the activity of the officers as they loaded the rowdies into a paddy wagon. Lights from the cruisers washed across the tar in alternating blue and red. Spencer didn't want him there any more than he wanted himself there. He should be mirandizing drunks or at least jotting down a few notes about the evening for the report he'd have to type up. This was exactly why his civvies included a suit. “On the job” was full time with him – no wonder they had him on salary.

 

“It doesn't work, you know.”

 

Carlton looked up from the crumbled papers and fast food wrappers glitzing up their shelter. Shawn was still huddled into himself – listing a bit off center. But his comment was clearly meant to break the sheet of ice he'd allowed to form between them. Or... he was shit-faced and spewing in whatever manner his body could manage.

 

Sighing, Carlton decided talking was better than sour silence so he indulged the opening.

 

“What doesn't...”

 

“Why else go to a crappy bar when I could jus'... just drink at home? I thought... maybe a change of scenery would help.” He shook his head. “Nope. Still there.” Shawn tapped at his forehead with his middle finger. Then his hand flattening against face and he rolled down over his knees.

 

Third, fourth, hell, he'd lost count now of how many times he'd jumped to catch the collapsing figure that evening. Unresponsive to the taps against his cheek, Spencer dangled, one hundred and seventy pounds of dead weight, in Carlton's arms.

 

Scrawny as he'd become, it still put a huge strain on Carlton's back. Even so, he just wasn't willing to let the kid drop into the filth below. Instead, he heaved the limp body onto the bench and kneeled beside him. He didn't have a penlight on him, he was a cop, not a doctor, but Carlton peeled up one lid at a time to check pupil response as well as he could. They seemed the same size but he couldn't be certain in the crappy visibility. The two knocks to the cranium in the span of fifteen minutes couldn't have been healthy.

 

He realized that no matter what choice he made, now, a Spencer was gonna chew his ass for it.

 

“Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, FUCK!”

 

So help him God, he'd quit alcohol completely to never repeat this night again.

 

 

~

 

 

Bad habits. If Shawn was a repeat offender, Henry would have to be a career criminal. Both of them had made far too many visits to this place in recent months, each time the cause had stolen more and more of Henry's soul. He'd been told that, this time, it was a simple bump on the head. No big deal. Of course, the person who'd told him that wasn't a surgeon, nurse, or even the pharmacist. The fact that it had been Lassiter, of all people, had actually made it worse. Explanations over the phone had been anything but enlightening, leaving Henry to go through dozens of reasons why his son had been brought to the ER.

 

Upon arrival, he'd gone through the familiar doors and down the hall to the emergency room. A nurse on staff that he'd recognized from previous visits, Helen, had waved him on to the treatment area just past the security room. Slapping the metal disk to open the double doors, he entered the cordoned off section and took a left. Third curtained room on the right side of the hall.

 

The plastic rings made a light shuuurr as he pulled the curtain aside. Shawn was laid back in the bed, one of his bleary eyes covered by the ice pack he held to his face. Henry rubbed the back of his head and glanced at Lassiter, who was leaning against the wall across from the bed, arms crossed.

 

Shawn seemed okay. He wasn't bleeding or unconscious. A little bruised and Henry would have known he was plastered just from the fumes. Nobody seemed to want to share. Knowing he could get either one of them to spill, Henry decided to go with the one who won't lead him down the path of red herrings first.

 

“Detective?”

 

He didn't think a man as pasty as Lassiter could blush. Six feet two inches of ten year old child, Henry half expected him to start scuffing his feet.

 

“It wasn't Spen, Shawn's fault...” That was new. Unexpected.

 

Henry stepped closer to Lassiter. The smell of alcohol filled the small space, but even so, it seemed to grow just a bit stronger as he neared the taller man. That wasn't just a blush. Oh for the...

 

“Detective, are you intoxicated?”

 

Lassiter yanked away from Henry, a growl battering away the uncharacteristic meekness.

 

“Of course not! It was barely two drinks!”

 

His patrol days rushed back at Henry like a whip snap. Two in the morning pull-overs watching the far from sober wobble on the side of the road and fumble their way though the alphabet. And all the while insisting they'd “only had a couple”.

 

“Do I need to perform a breathalyzer?”

 

As if the man wasn't pushed to the edge already, the mocking question turned his color from pink to scarlet.

 

“Are you out of your mind!?”

 

Shawn hissed at the shout and dropped the cold pack in his lap to place his palms against his temples. Henry regretted needling Lassiter when he should have been checking on his son. Leaving the man in his chosen corner to sulk, Henry walked to the bed and braced his knuckles on the edge of the mattress.

 

“How's the head?”

 

Shawn pulled away when Henry reached up to turn his chin, trying to get a better look at the bruise in the low light.

 

“M'fine.” He muttered before covering his face with his arm.

 

Henry shook his head. “Sure you are.” Picking up the cold pack, he pushed it into Shawn's hand. Rather than lift it, Shawn just squeezed it in his fingers. Henry straightened and once more turned towards Lassiter.

 

He didn't speak but he raised his eyebrows with enough inflection to get the query across.

 

The detective huffed and crossed his arms. “Spen- _Shawn_ , got caught in a random bar brawl. I happened to be there when it happened. He took a punch and later ended up bumping his head. I figured I should bring him here to make sure his brain wasn't scrambled.” He left off the obvious addendum, though Henry could easily read what he'd meant to conclude his sentence with.

 

Leaving his statement where it stood, Lassiter lifted his jacket from the peg near the door.

 

“You two don't mind, I'd like to call it a night. My Spencer intake reached its limit about four hours ago.”

 

He started to push through the curtain when Henry put a hand on his arm.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Only giving him the smallest glance, Lassiter nodded, and then passed out of sight from the room.

 

Under his arm, Shawn chuckled. “He must be drunk, right? I mean, since when does Lassadoodle stick his badge out for me?” Letting his arm drop he placed the cold pack against his temple instead. His face tightened at the pressure but it didn't stop him from trying to sit up.

 

Henry placed one hand against Shawn's back when he started to wobble. He felt muscles go rigid on contact but didn't pull away. He'd rather risk a little emotional stress than a lot of injury if Shawn tumbled off the bed.

 

“How long you planning to wait until you drop one of your size eleven's on me?”

 

“What?” Holding up his son, Henry didn't have a hand to spare to check his pupil response, trusting that whoever was on staff to help his son had at least done a concussion check by this point.

 

“The big Monty Python on the top of my head. The Cinderella on the stairs. Come'on you're dying to serve me up a fresh helping of Henry Hash so, have at it. Make it count.”

 

Henry would have rubbed his own scalp if he could. “The phrase isn't “dropping the other shoe on you” if that's what you're getting at. I'm not going to lecture you, Shawn-”

 

“Why?” Shawn pulled away, dropping his hands to the mattress and swinging his legs over the edge. His eyes were bright; bloodshot and black ringed. Then they disappeared as he scrubbed them with the heels of his palms. “Not very dad-like of you. Don't tell me you're getting soft on me just cause I was raped...” he gulped. He dropped his hands but didn't lift his head. After a few seconds, he turned his head to the side. Henry could see the creases deepening on the corner of his eye. A moment later, Shawn wiped his face against his shoulder, sniffing.

 

“What happened to you...” Henry rubbed his hand over his lips, but knowing he had to... _had to_ get this out. “What happened to you doesn't change anything about what matters, kid. And that... that's that you are my son... and I love you.”

 

Shawn looked up at him, mouth drawn tight in a downward curve. The brightness in his eyes was even brighter – wet on the edges where the shoulder of his shirt had left streaks. There was surprise amongst the sadness and Henry felt shame that telling his child that he loved him would cause that reaction.

 

Henry was a big proponent of personal responsibility. A baby born from a crack addicted mother could become a senator. Another, born into privilege with every opportunity to make something of himself, could become a serial killer. It might be a cliché but it was still true, that life was what a person made of it.

 

Still, that didn't change the other facts. That no matter how much he'd tried to do otherwise, he'd still managed to screw up his kid.

 

“Come on. Let's find your nurse so we can get out of here.”

 

Shawn nodded and let Henry help him off the bed.

 

As for Henry, he was facing the fact he was out of his depth. He'd been telling himself that things were starting to get better. Easy enough to say when Shawn had started leaving the house for longer and longer periods. Easy to believe when Shawn stopped flinching so much at unexpected touch. Yeah, real easy.

 

If he just ignored the glaze in Shawn's eyes after long evenings out. If he ignored the fact that his son was still taking three or four showers a day. If he ignored how frequently he'd had to replace the beer in his fridge and had even thought about switching over to soda.

 

He signed the paperwork for Shawn's release from the emergency room. Luckily he hadn't had a serious injury and, other than Ibuprofen, didn't need further treatment.

 

But that wasn't completely true, he knew that, now. And he knew that, what he had to face, he couldn't handle alone.

 

He'd let Shawn sleep tonight knowing that he, himself, wouldn't. And then tomorrow, biting the bullet so to speak, he'd call Madeleine. He'd been telling her the same fiction he'd been telling himself, in spite of the fact that she had probably known better.

 

And, since he'd decided to stop fooling himself, he could admit the real truth. That he'd known that it had been a lie all along.

 

 


	18. Some of Yesterday

Her hand pressed against the starchy fabric of her gown. She hated the uniform. Even now, it hung about her like a tent – bulky and shapeless. Only when she scrunched a wad of fabric at the small of her back could she see.

 

She couldn't stop staring.

 

She ached for a full length mirror, but had made do with the smaller reflection above the sink – though it only allowed her to see the top half of her belly. Two other women stood in the bathroom with her. One was a patient, like her, and the other was a nurse. They never allowed her to be alone except when she went to bed.

 

“Come on, honey, enough lollygagging. Time for breakfast.”

 

Ignoring the nurse, knowing she had at least three more minutes before her watchdog physically dragged her to the mess hall, Rhonda arched her back to take in more of her shape. Maybe she could get one of the staff to take a picture. They were so strict about policy, but surely they couldn't allow these precious moments to pass without anything to remember them by! And not just for herself either.

 

She sighed, dropping her hands from her waist. She wasn't hungry, but didn't want to deal with the repercussions of skipping another meal. The other patient, Rhonda had never bothered to remember her name, washed up at the sink and obediently made for the door. Rhonda followed, eying the nurse as she passed.

 

She could feel the distain but knew the mask for what it was. Jealousy. Sure, Rhonda was the one behind bars but that was just a temporary hiccup. She had life inside her! And someone who loved her waiting out the months until they could be together again. What did the nurse have other than minimum wage and the daily task of forcing pills on the infirm?

 

“Morning, princess. Get that call from your boyfriend yet?”

 

Emma's greeting had become so much background noise that Rhonda didn't even glance at the older woman as she passed her. Straddling the chair at her table, Emma laughed and resumed tearing her pancakes into evenly sized pieces.

 

Friday was pancake day. Most of the patients were excited to have that special treat, though Rhonda couldn't claim the same. Her own recipe was leagues above the somewhat rubbery disks. As was her custom, she chose a few sausage links and a bowl of bran flakes instead. The last thing she needed would be to blow up like a balloon before she got out. Stunningly pregnant was one thing, but she wouldn't let her figure go after being parted from Shawn for so long. She wanted to be as beautiful as he remembered her.

 

Taking her tray back to a table, a distance away from most of the patients, Rhonda tucked her skirt beneath her legs with one hand and sat neatly. Napkin in her lap and a sigh as she picked up her utensil. She hadn't had a real fork in her hands in nearly seven months. How much longer before she could handle silverware again?

 

“Not much longer.” She whispered, her hand resting on the swell beneath her dress.

 

She started to lift a bite of cereal when she stopped, her free hand spreading against her belly. The plastic spoon plunked back into the soggy flakes and both hands flattened over her midsection. She no longer heard the voices around her – didn't see the patients moving in their wandering manner or the staff among them, guarded yet bored.

 

A jump, a tiny bump against her hand.

 

The sting along the height of her cheekbones preceded the pain filling her throat.

 

“Oh, honey, I see you!” She hugged herself, joyous yet fighting the sudden ache of her loneliness. Everything was so wrong! She was supposed to be sharing this – not with the blanked out stares of the recently drugged, but with the one person she loved more than life. It wasn't fair! She was missing out, but Shawn was missing out too! All these “first moments” were being lost to him!

 

She rubbed her hand up and down and was thrilled to feel another kick in response.

 

There had to be a way.

 

She looked up, noticing she was being watched by one of the guards – a woman named Martha. One of the few guards to treat her with anything like respect – maybe because Martha had a little girl at home that she'd been raising alone. She was also one of the only people in the hospital that Rhonda was comfortable talking to. One of the few people in the hospital that would talk back without the degree that made it an obligation.

 

Martha didn't join her for breakfast, but she smiled at Rhonda, and even surprised her with a wink.

 

A way...

 

Rhonda smiled back.

 

 

~

 

 

 

“You were a hard man to find.” Carlton was casual in every movement, smoothing the sleeves of his jacket, tapping the pages of his file together just so. But his eyes remained on the subject across from him.

 

Alan Woods, on par with the Yeti after so many months of unsuccessful records searching, had turned out to be flesh and blood after all. Though somewhat light on the flesh end of things.

 

Not much response to Carlton's greeting other than a head tip. His own eyes seemed fixed on the grease packed fingernails he was currently picking at – flicking bits of grime across the table's surface. Carlton tugged free a handkerchief to swipe clean his side of the table.

 

Every subject required his or her own approach. Whatever others may try to claim, Carlton was a damn good interrogator. Held the station record for fastest confession when he broke Two Toes Bill in exactly thirty-five seconds. A hard and uncompromising glare could sometimes go farther than any number of words. And Lassiter had learned from the best when it came to pinning a suspect with a look that would make a guy soak his boxers.

 

Woods didn't have the gumption to toy around, already cracking as he went from scraping his nails to scrubbing at the wiry bushel of his mustache.

 

A single glance up towards the rock steady detective across from him and he was done.

 

“It was that bitch, wasn't it.” Hint of Alabama back woods in his accent. Lassiter wasn't one to show his cards at first blush, usually, so he reigned in his “gotcha” and crossed his arms over his chest.

 

“What 'bitch' would that be, Mr. Woods?”

 

No longer sketching a persona as deer in high beams, Woods shifted into good ole' boy confidant. Two guys chugging beers together and he had the stench of suds clinging to him strongly enough to carry that impression. Lassiter felt tipsy just by proximity. Hopefully more booze on his clothes than soaking into his liver cause whatever statement he was about to articulate would hold up better in court if it was delivered sober.

 

“Rhonda. Like you don't know who I'm talking about. The crazy bitch.”

 

Just when it sounded like Woods was ready to push his word clusters into a solid filibuster, he dropped back into angry brooding. Lassiter had nowhere to be other than at his desk with a stack of folders and a cup of room temperature coffee. He could wait this guy out or push him for details. He even had the time to consider which move he preferred. Clearly not as at ease with the silence, Woods sniffed and fidgeted and twisted in his seat before huffing in irritation.

 

“Fuck her and fuck you too! You didn't do a damn thing for me when she was showing up at my job to shove me around and following me all the way to Ventura after we split, but the second she makes some stupid complaint you haul me in here like a crook!”

 

Lassiter waggled the foot crossed over his knee. “You're saying your ex wife was stalking you?” It wasn't disbelief in his need for clarification but obviously Woods read it that way.

 

“She got her legs wrapped around you, does she? You're just like those pigs back home! Ya'll are the same! She bats those big blues and sells you on some bullshit story about how I beat her or some such shit and you all puff out your chests and damn near crawl over one another to be the hero! You think she'll spread em' wide for you if you come to her rescue? Well think again, chump, you aren't even close to her type.”

 

Both feet settling side by side on the floor, Lassiter sat up just enough to rest his elbows on the table.

 

“First of all, watch your mouth.” He kept eye contact until Woods rolled his and dropped against his seat back. “Secondly, you were brought here because we have some questions about your ex wife.”

 

Maybe the guy wasn't as soused as he smelled because he sank a little further – his body lifting in a sigh before he gestured with one hand in a clear wave of the white flag. Not much of one for going into battle, Lassiter hadn't even had to draw his sword. Eyes now roving to the side, Woods seemed to be counting the bricks comprising the wall. A closer study of his form gave away the tiniest tremor in the hand wrapped around his left arm.

 

Once more it was a time of waiting, though not quite so long this time. Just that one bit of aggression and Woods had transitioned from bar brawler to mild mannered accountant. Back to picking his nails but now his mustache was moving – creating air as his mouth worked up to sound.

 

“She, uh. She...” He snorted before giving Lassiter a look. “You're a big fellow, ain't you?”

 

A blink. “Excuse me?”

 

Woods nodded. “She bat her eyes, did she? Played the poor abused wifey card?”

 

Lassiter didn't reply to that but, instead, worked his fingers together in a loose knot. Woods had shown himself the type to feed off distraction. Some guys poked because they needed a fight. Needed to blow off steam to feel in control. Woods did it because... because he was afraid.

 

It was a thought that had formed in that second. An insight that was backed up by the collection of snapshots gathered from the moment Lassiter had entered the room and had noted, but ignored, that tiny flinch.

 

As before, though less intentional this time, his silence created speech to fill the emptiness.

 

“Fu...” He glanced up; licked his lips, “Crazy. Pure crazy. I knew that from day one. Hated her half the time but... Well, you ever have a woman look at you like you were her whole world?” View slid off his hands to brick study once more – but he didn't seem to be seeing the room any longer.

 

“It was insane. Like, one minute we're getting along like the best couple on earth and the next she's giving me shit cause I gave the waitress at the steak house a big tip. Never knew what you were gonna get from her. She just got worse when we started trying to have a kid. Her idea. I mean, do I look like dad material?”

 

Lassiter said nothing, again, though it wasn't for calculated reasons. He took in the shabby clothes over a slender frame; the heady stench of barfly on tap. But he wasn't seeing Woods.

 

“We tried, for a few months, and before I knew it we were having a kid. God she was excited. Wanted to start decorating right away. Dragged me to every damn Baby Gap and Junior Towne in the city.”

 

He was quiet, then, as the expression on his face slipped down like soft mud.

 

“What happened?” Left too long to think about his words and decide how much he wanted to share, Woods might close off completely. Lassiter wasn't going to let that happen, though. Not when he was so close to prying up one of those last big stones.

 

Still in his memories, Woods barely seemed to notice Lassiter's soft question. He responded just the same.

 

“She was about twenty-eight weeks along. Huge. I'd been calling her Big Girl but she didn't mind. Loved it, actually. Best we'd gotten along since we first got together. Told her I planned to keep her knocked up for the rest of our lives. Would have almost been willing to if I thought it meant no more of that batshit – crap.” He grinned, a flyby of burning hot terrible joy thickly laced with grief that was gone just that fast.

 

“But... uh... then, one night she, uh, woke up bleeding. It was... it was everywhere. Drove her to the hospital myself. Maybe should have called an ambulance. Maybe it would have... I-I don't know if...” His fist scrubbed across his forehead. “It took hours.”

 

No question how that story ended or where the sequel had picked up. The woman had been swimming in the river Cuckoo long before she'd crossed paths with Spencer. It wasn't new information and regardless of her little tragedy she'd long ago lost any chance at his pity.

 

He left Woods, then. The guy had been closing off even before he'd reached the end of that particular tale. More questions could wait. And there would be more questions. Meanwhile, Lassiter needed a piss and something with protein.

 

Before he went for either, however, he had a stop to make in observation. He knew O'Hara had been watching from the start. She wasn't on the case – whatever truly remained of it – but he'd barely begun the argument for keeping her out of the clean up before she'd had her finger shoved in his face. Worse, Vick had backed her up, though with the admonition that O'Hara was there to observe only.

 

At least it was only O'Hara. He really didn't have the energy to deal with-

 

“Henry?” Bald bastard smack on the other side of the door as it opened, arms on his hips and every inch disappointed school principal. Lassiter's surprise segued immediately into exhausted aggravation.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?”

 

Breathing out as his arms took an even more stern position crossed over his chest, Henry eyed him like some punk kid that had dared step sneaker on his freshly mowed lawn.

 

“I thought it was understood I'd be kept in the loop with anything pertaining to this case.” His eyes were like freaking ice, no joke. “Now, detective, tell me how this is going to help my son.”

 

 

~

 

 

Weighed down by four bags of trash, cleaning binge gone into overdrive, Shawn tripped over the doorjamb and nearly face-planted before catching his shoulder against the frame. Both arms swung out from the heavy bags he was white knuckling – the plastic stretching on one particularly overburdened sack. Still woozy from the previous night slash very early morning, he tossed the bags towards the trash can – groaning when they missed completely and hit the sidewalk. The one bag, filled beyond capacity, split open when it struck down and spilled its payload of bottles, pizza boxes, and crumpled cans. Slugging out onto the concrete, he pulled his lips back from his teeth as he used one of the pizza boxes to haphazardly scrape some of the... soggier... contents onto another pizza box. Heaving bags, bottles, and the rest into the can, he held his hands away from himself as he returned inside.

 

Gus would give him hell if he saw the mess but lucky for Shawn it was the weekend and his buddy was visiting his parents. Also, Gus tended to avoid the alley behind the office. Even if their personal trash made it to the bin, the lingering retch of garbage never quite vanished from the area.

 

Taking one more moment to assert some leverage on his balance, Shawn pushed the door shut with his shoulder and locked it with his two cleanest fingers before pulling the chain.

 

Sliding his feet towards the small kitchen area he washed up and then palmed his hand over the top of his mug where it rested in front of the microwave. Gulping down the last few drops at the bottom he proceeded to refill it with coffee – switching up his liquids to something more suited towards daytime hours.

 

Noisily slurping the softened tar that passed for java, he hooked the door to the fridge with one finger and bent in to paw through the scraps inside. Overdue, painfully so, for a grocery run; especially since he'd begun mostly staying at Psych in the last month to give himself and his father some breathing room. He'd officially moved out of the bakery three months ago and hadn't returned. His dad, to Shawn's embarrassment, had roped together some volunteers from the station to help move all of his stuff to the old man's garage until Shawn could go through it. A few things, though, had gone straight to the dump. His “Werewolves in London” poster, after being furiously ripped to shreds, and his bed...

 

Passing up the hardened nugget of cheese and an open container of yogurt with its afro of white mold, Shawn finally located a package of bread with a couple remaining slices only slightly stale. Letting the door fall shut he dropped the slices on the counter and built a sandwich with peanut butter and Cheez-Its. Disgusting comfort food at its worst, he worked down every dry bite with a large swallow of sludge while slumped down in front of the plasma.

 

He let himself drift with Nickelodeon for the next couple of hours. Airbenders gave way to Power Rangers followed by boy geniuses, half ghost boys, spiky haired ninja boys, and finally talking barnyard animals. He wondered if it was profound that he found that last one to be the most believable of the lineup.

 

By noon he'd switched out the coffee for his first Rockstar of the day. Another few minutes for the surge of iguana to buzz through his muscles and he pushed the can between the couch cushions to keep it upright before racing to the bathroom.

 

After the pause to relieve himself, Shawn jogged towards the front door. On the way across the room, his iPhone chimed a bright, two note alert for a missed call. Probably his father. Again. Well, Henry could wait.

 

Automatic glance up and down the sidewalk before stepping out beneath the awning. Early but already hot, sun slicing through the tiny shred of cloud cover. He realized he'd neglected shoes when his heels started to singe on the tar. Hissing and hopping, he crab-stepped to the grass dividing the parking lot from the street.

 

Scattered cans and cigarettes were gathered at the base of the wildly painted trash can set out for public use – not that the public ever managed a slam dunk.

 

Kicking at a bit of the mess that had encroached on the property line, he stopped beneath the palm shading the far end of the lot and leaned back against the smooth side. The beach looked awesome. Water and sand. Not enough people to crowd it and a mostly empty pier if he wanted to escape even those few stragglers. Wouldn't be the first morning he'd mustered himself out to the edge to watch the world drop away in wave crested blue. At times he didn't make it back to the office before 4pm – sinking into the depth of solemn obsession and only chased from his perch when the after work families and fishermen overwhelmed his peace.

 

Not today, though. Unbalanced and a little sickly in the stomach area for the bum act regardless of the bum look he was sporting. Rubbing both hands over the extreme overgrowth matting his chin, Shawn managed to circumnavigate his back rest. Aiming a return to the front door, he angled his path to make for the flat mailbox nestled against the siding. Bills, and bills, and oh hey, bills! Back in the box with the stack he'd already neglected for the past two days. Gus would come in on Monday, clutching them in his fist and bitching about losing the lease or the cable and something about cutting into their corn dog budget and then he'd dig out the checkbook and make it nice.

 

His cell bumbled out a ring seconds after he pushed into the building. Ignoring it, again, he worked open the refrigerator. Soothingly cool, he let himself hang in that spoiled milk smell for almost a minute. And then he couldn't stand it. Huffing, he held the door open with one toe and leaned as far as he could to claw at the box of garbage bags. Sneaky devil, Gus had taken to leaving cleaning supplies in strategic and highly visible locations as a teaching aid. As a conscientious objector, Shawn never followed with that mode of instruction, choosing to let the muck get ankle deep rather than fall in with the fascist mindset. However, that was then. Other than personal hygiene, which continued its spiral, he'd become damn near Henry-like in his quest for cleanliness. Which was why, twenty minutes later, half his body was buried in the small fridge as he scrubbed out the warming unit. Old food, which was basically all the food, had been tossed and the shelves were soaking in the sink.

 

Buried in the recesses, he still heard his phone as the short chime brumbled from the other room. Sneezing into his elbow at the orangey fumes lifting from his wad of paper towels, Shawn scooted back away from the fridge. Sparkling fresh once more, he pitched the towels and kicked the door shut as he passed through to the main office.

 

The ring stopped three steps from his desk. Lifting the phone he found he'd actually missed three calls. One from his dad, as expected, and a couple without an ID. Punching in the code for his voicemail he went to retrieve his now, warm, drink.

 

“ _ **Message received**. Hey, Shawn. I'm sure Gus already told you but tomorrow is the SBPD picnic at Alameda Park. I'll be at the station for the first half of the day but will be heading over there during shift change at about four. I can swing by and pick you up if you want to go.”_

 

Shawn deleted the message. Part of him, actually, badly wanted to go. He missed people. He missed his friends. Hell, he missed Lassie – the last time he'd seen the guy had been at the ER after the man had dragged him from the ill-conceived happy hour.

 

Sun flickered over his hands. He looked up, out at the world cut to a square by his window. People together, smiling, enjoying the afternoon. It was beautiful.

 

He felt something knot up in his throat at being the one apart from such activity. He should be out there. And not just to stare at the waves like some lost dog who got abandoned by his owners on their cross-country trek to see Mount Rushmore because he barked too many times and now he's just hoping the kid with the double stack ice cream cone trips on his shoelace so he can score a scoop of pistachio ripple even though it isn't his favorite flavor cause he's just so damn hungry he'd be willing to lick the dirt.

 

He could do that. Not like he had to stay. Besides, dad was hopeless in a social setting and could use all the backup he could wrangle to keep from embarrassing himself.

 

God, did he just use “wrangle” in a thought process? That settled it. No more History of the Old West on Discovery when he ran out of things to watch.

 

His phone was still in hand, his thumb resting over his father's name on the screen. He pressed down to dial in the same moment that it rang and he ended up answering in that single move. Of course his dad would call again. His pops never did well with gentle nudging, no doubt he wanted to lay down some firm insistence decorated in bribery. Time to flip in on its ass; his dad wasn't going to know what hit him.

 

“You know you can get me to do anything for pineapple skewers.” He said brightly. His foot was bridging the gap between inside and out, the band of sunlight curling around the toe of his Nike's, when the giggle snaking across the line froze him to the floor.

 

“ _Well I'll just have to keep that in mind now, won't I, baby?”_

 


	19. And the Walls Fall Down

Lunch was slowly thickening in his belly, splashed with scalding coffee. Thank God the decaf horror from the day before had been resolved, whatever idiot had signed off on that purchase should be put in leg irons. Five minutes was four minutes longer than he typically allowed a perp and/or witness who inevitably _became_ a perp to sweat out a confession. Woods hadn't sat still since being left all by his lonesome. Knees shivered up and down from the bounce of his heels - toes the only part of him touching the floor. His hands slid back and forth, palm against palm in a canted image of prayer. Most likely was praying - a not unheard of act for anyone stuck in that room.

 

Carlton kept his sips small, drawing in scarcely a mouthful at a time as he maintained a lock on every nervous tick playing out on the other side of the glass. So frequently had Woods raked fingers through his thinning scrub that spikes of reddish-brown hair stood up like cactus on a desert landscape.

 

Pinching a squint in his eyes, Carlton forced himself to stop thinking about long lost ghost towns and focus, instead, on his job. A few more minutes and he'd be back in there.

 

He heard the clump of the Chief's heels as she approached the door to the viewing room. He'd left it open just a bit – never did like closing himself into a space with only one exit.

 

Vick pushed the door wide enough to pass through – letting it creak back a few inches behind her as it swung back towards the frame. She looked exhausted, considering it wasn't even noon yet. This investigation was draining them all.

 

“How is it going?” Vick had turned to study Woods, who was now picking at his cuticles, while moving his focus around the interior of the interrogation room.

 

Carlton took one more sip of coffee before setting it on the table next to a stack of dusty folders.

 

“Lots of hubbub about his marriage and how much love and romance suck every molecule of humanity from a ruined soul until the only thing that's left is the shattered remains of a lonely wretch breathing his last, staggered gasp, before sweet sweet death claims her prey.”

 

“Sounds like you're making progress.”

 

Carlton grunted and folded his arms, still taking in every twitch on the other side of the glass.

 

Vick tipped her chin. “You think he's holding something back.”

 

“Oh yeah he is.” One knuckle tapped at the frame around the two-way glass. “He's got his teeth on something... And I'm going to pry it out even if I have to use a crowbar.”

 

Vick didn't smile but her expression shifted to something a bit lighter as she turned his way. “Mr. Woods is not a suspect, Detective.”

 

Her opinion, but Carlton had never really bought the whole “innocent until proven guilty” mindset. Woods was bleeding guilt from every pore. He had either participated in a crime or was hiding one.

 

Reaching for his coffee mug again, Lassiter took another sip. “Thank you... by the way.” He glanced towards the Chief as he clarified. “Whatever it took to get _Senior_ out of my hair.”

 

Vick smiled. “I sent him with O'Hara to look into the Clarke break-in. Told him I needed an update by five.”

 

Lassiter's fidgeting mood broke for a moment into a cramped grin. “Nice.” With Henry occupied he could relax just a touch. The old man made him feel like a first year that had neglected to tuck in his shirt. That scowling disapproval seemed to be a constant expression that had worn into his creases – probably from the years spent corralling Junior.

 

His coffee was losing the last of its palatable heat. Gulping the final third of it, Carlton scooped his file and headed back for the door. Woods had spent enough time chewing his nails. Time to see if there was any blood in his cuticles.

 

~~~

 

 

The sky was still brilliant blue. The lemon and orange of cleaning solution made an acidic assault on his nose from behind the glass of the large picture window. He sometimes saw it, still, the painted on “o” at the end of “Psych”. Dripping red streaks so effective in their creepiness. Like it had needed the streaks to send him into a gaping freeze – knowing the man had been there while he'd slept. Knowing he'd been watched.

 

How appropriate to be thinking of that now... listening to a psycho...

 

Her voice carried that same excited passion he'd heard that day in the hotel. Still hazy, for the most part, and thank God for that single mercy. He could still remember her fervent whispers as she'd...

 

“ _Our baby kicked today! I felt it so strongly! And it was so precious and I wanted you there, sweetheart, so badly! I wanted you there to place your hands on my belly and feel that little one saying hello, daddy, I can't wait to meet you...”_

 

Shawn closed his eyes and shrank back into the cool office. Without his body wedging it open, the door drifted mostly shut. His breath staggered out in sobs of air and only his fist bunched against his lips kept him together as the voice, rich and homey and levitated from the dankest corner of hell, beamed at him from the other side.

 

“ _We think about you all the time. Our little family isn't complete without you. When are you going to visit us? Please, Shawn, I miss you so m-”_

 

The voice cut to nothing as Shawn pressed his thumb against the screen. His hand swung down against his side and he shuffled his feet in an aimless circuit through the outer office. Seconds later, his phone burbled another incoming call. He didn't look down as the call went through its cycle before going to voicemail.

 

He waited, staring towards the shadows.

 

Another call chirped against his palm.

 

Midway through the third ring, he pressed the button to shut off the device. He looked back towards the large window. Dust hung suspended in the soft golden beams filtered through the pane of glass; pushing the shadow of his business name in a slant against the opposite wall.

 

It really was a beautiful day.

 

The pane shattered along with his phone; the furious pitch impacting almost dead center and scattering shards of glass several feet along the sidewalk.

 

 

~~~

 

 

“What are we doing here, Detective?”

 

Juliet parked, removed her seatbelt and slipped off her sunglasses – folding them and snapping them safe into their case – before responding to her unlikely “partner”.

 

“Investigating a burglary.”

 

And Shawn wasn't kidding when he said his dad was scariest when he smiled. Henry chuckled and tilted his head in a very familiar look that carved in stone the biological relation to his son no matter what Shawn may have claimed otherwise.

 

“Are we? Then tell me this. What more do we need to do?”

 

Juliet blinked. “Uh, well this is just the usual follow up. The Chief was hoping Mrs. Clarke would be able to provide a more complete list of any other items she thought could be missing. Look, she's an older woman and was really upset when the officers were taking her statement. We were hoping she'd be more calm today and Chief Vick knows that...”

 

Henry raised an eyebrow and Juliet smiled. “She knows how you can charm older ladies.”

 

The response back wasn't the placated agreement she'd, somewhat desperately, been hoping for. “You took this case yesterday afternoon, right?”

 

Probably hadn't expected an answer because rather than wait, Henry continued speaking in his measured and mildly instructional way that Juliet had only had the displeasure of being subjected to once before.

 

“Adelaide Clarke called 911 yesterday morning to say her home had been broken into during the night while she slept. A sweep of her home turned up minimal damage outside of a broken lock to her back door and a broken vase on the carpet next to the fireplace. According to her statement, she'd discovered that her diamond earrings had vanished from the coffee table, where she'd left them the evening before, after going out to dinner with friends. She was so flustered from the break-in that she wasn't able to give a complete inventory of stolen items to the police at the time her statement was taken. Am I missing anything?”

 

God, the last time she'd felt this way had been during week two at the Academy when she'd accidentally dropped her rubber gun during a training exercise. Choosing the perky response rather than let the father of her boyfriend see her unease, Juliet shook her head and moved to open her door.

 

“Nope, that pretty much covers it! You ready to go...”

 

“See, the reason I brought it up...”

 

Juliet worked very hard not to groan as she pulled the door shut again.

 

“...is that I had a chance to study the photos from the break-in before we left the station. I always like to be prepared because you never know what sort of situation you're going to be facing at any given crime scene. And I noticed something interesting. What do you suppose that was?”

 

Was he really going to play this game? He was worse than Carlton! Juliet, though, was willing to humor him. “None of her electronics had been stolen.”

 

Henry nodded. “None of her electronics had been stolen. Of course, these days a lot of these small-time punks go in for the easier score. Electronics are bulky and harder to make off with – especially if the victim is still in the home. More than likely you're looking at a single perp given the small take. Of course, there was also something else I'd noticed from the photos taken in her kitchen.”

 

He waited again. Juliet wished she'd left her sunglasses on because she really wanted to roll her eyes. “Her iPhone was still plugged into its charger on the counter.”

 

“The counter that was five feet from the back door that was broken into. Do I really need to mention the high degree of visibility of this home compared to the surrounding properties or would you rather just admit that this was a distraction designed to get me away from the station for a few hours? Old lady Clarke is scamming her insurance company. Nice try, but next time you want to drag me on a wild goose chase, don't leave the file on your desk.”

 

Juliet smirked at the older man. “Noted. You want to be the one to cuff her?”

 

Henry at least looked amused. “Nah, you go ahead. However, I'd like to stop by and visit Shawn on the way back; maybe take him to lunch.”

 

Juliet swallowed.

 

It had been, well, months since...

 

She nodded. “Yeah, yes. I'd like that.”

 

Henry nodded back, his face showing he understood about more than just their current case. He patted her knee before opening his door. “Come on, then. Let's get your suspect.”

 

 

~~~

 

 

It was late afternoon now – missing the noon lunch hour by about forty-five minutes. Juliet was back behind the wheel of her sedan and they were about five minutes away from the Psych office. They'd passed Mrs. Clarke over to the officers in booking, and after filling out a minor stack of paperwork, they were on the road once more.

 

She hadn't been able to talk to Henry about their destination, though she felt so much anxiety about the visit that her fingers were white where they gripped the wheel. She'd seen Shawn many times in the last months. Seen him, but... There was always something between them. An absence. The only thing it could compare to were those agonizing months after the first Yang case. No... no, this was much worse. That had been ungainly attempts at keeping a friendship while slowly trying to kill the attraction they'd shared. This was... well she didn't even know where to begin with fixing this. She couldn't even show Shawn how much she loved him without terrifying him.

 

The beach was on the left and for a few seconds, Juliet allowed part of her attention to move to the sand and waves. So much blue...

 

Psych was up ahead on the right. Even from half a block, Juliet could see the broken out window. “Oh my God...”

 

No time for a siren, she endured the outrage of other drivers as she cleared the last 35 feet and pulled into the lot at a hard angle. Henry was charging from the vehicle even faster than she, but she caught up with him before he reached the door. As much as his face showed his anxiety and impatience, he dropped back at her stern look. Weapon in hand, Juliet took point and carefully approached the door.

 

The sound of breaking glass inside; then a crash. Juliet nodded to Henry, and then turned the knob and rushed inside. Though he wasn't armed, Henry wasn't waiting and followed at her back as she nearly ran towards sounds of struggle. There was another smash that covered their approach, but it was the closed off sob that finally broke Henry from the number two position as he brushed past Juliet and into the main office.

 

“Henry...!” Weapon still in hand, Juliet hurried after him and through the door... “Oh, Shawn...”

 

She slipped her gun back into its holster.

 

She was stuck, looking in on the scene. Shawn was alone in the room, save for herself and Henry. The ruin of his office surrounded him to the point she struggled to identify the crushed, scattered, and broken items sprayed violently across the floor.

 

Juliet stayed on the threshold between rooms, but Henry had moved to within a foot of Shawn's back. If he'd heard them enter, Juliet wasn't certain, but she was deeply afraid of startling him given they had no idea what had triggered Shawn's destruction.

 

Henry hadn't moved closer, though his hand was raised towards Shawn's shoulder. Still breathing hard – panting – Shawn seemed closed inside himself.

 

“Shawn?” Henry still hadn't touched his son; still hadn't lowered his hand. “We're right here, kid.”

 

Shawn's head jerked – a sharp sideways twitch. He sniffed and shifted enough for Juliet to catch sight of his profile. He had yet to acknowledge them. His absence of awareness was terrifying.

 

Suddenly he spun and Juliet made a sharp noise at the abrupt motion. He saw them there, no doubt of it. He stared at his father – his eyes hard and wet.

 

“What do you want?” His voice was so rough. When Juliet dropped her eyes down to his fists, she could see that his hands were shaking. She swallowed then as, unable to see such distress without responding, Henry moved to place his hand on Shawn's arm.

 

“It's okay, son, we-”

 

Shawn swung fast, knocking Henry's hand from his arm. _**“It is not okay! Stop trying to tell me it's okay, because it isn't!”**_

 

His voice was a deep tremor with rage and Juliet felt her throat lock at the raw pain of it. She was trapped in the doorway, half in and half out and wasn't that just a wretched little analogy. She'd been there for him, loving him, aching for his suffering, sobbing for everything that had been lost... But had it only been about Shawn? How many times had she cried because of what she had lost too? How many times had she felt hurt because he wouldn't casually reach for her hand or lean in for a quick kiss... or a longer kiss? How many nights had she thought only of the fact that he no longer shared her bed? Rhonda had attacked Shawn, but her victims numbered far more than one. Feeling shame for the “selfish” emotions hadn't been helping Shawn. It wasn't about the fact that he, only, was the one in pain. This was about facing the reality that all of them were in pain. And Shawn needed to know, in a very real way, that he wasn't in this alone anymore. Setting her teeth, Juliet stepped completely into the room.

 

“Shawn.” She'd sworn Shawn knew she was there but the moment she spoke he snapped his eyes her way and stumbled backward over a slipshod mess of comics. He caught himself by smacking one hand back into the wall.

 

After a moment, he turned away from her and braced both hands over his head.

 

“I don't... I don't want you here, Juliet.”

 

“Shawn...”

 

“I don't, _want_ you here!” He shouted, turning back to face her. But even as he shouted, he advanced; pushing so close that it was Juliet that backed away until the wall met her shoulders. Shawn was trembling from his hairline on down, his eyes were bloodshot, and he looked as though days had passed since he'd last slept.

 

They hadn't been this close in months. It was torture that she couldn't hold him. Her fingers curled but she kept her hands at her sides; as unthreatening as she could manage with her boyfriend looming in her personal space. He was so thin. He'd never been fat, but he'd... softened... on the edges in recent years. But now... not just thin... not just weight from his body, but weight... from his soul.

 

“Why, Jules?” His voice, still thick and raspy, had slipped into a cracked whisper. “I can't do this anymore; I can't. I can't... keep feeling this... like I...” His jaw trembled and his forehead crinkled as he fought the emotion wrestling in the lines of his face. And then he just couldn't fight it anymore.

 

With his first scraped sob, he grappled Juliet into his arms; crushing her tight against his chest and dipping his head to her shoulder. Still on the opposite side of the room, Henry caught her eye long enough to nod. Then, quietly, he stepped out of the room.

 

Alone for the first time... in what seemed like years... Juliet cautiously raised her arms until she could enclose the shaking body with her embrace. Not letting go, grip tightening even more, Shawn held her like she was the only thing between himself and death.

 

And finally, after so many months of anxiety and fear and him pushing her away, she could say what had been trapped in her throat for so long.

 

“I'm here. I love you, Shawn... and I'm not leaving you. I'm never leaving you. I'm here...”

 


	20. Calm in the Eye

They held one another for time uncounted. Juliet struggled to not clutch Shawn's body tight against hers. It was so hard to have to regulate her embrace when she was so used to crushing herself tight into his arms. And yet, his own arms clung to her desperately. In a few moments, Shawn turned his head against her shoulder. His cheek brushed her earlobe and she felt the light scrape of stubble.

 

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Jules...”

 

And at the sound of her name, spoken as the endearment that she hadn't heard in nearly half a year, Juliet wept. They rocked back and forth, Shawn whispering apologies while she cried against him. They held on until the jagged wedge of sunlight from the broken window moved from the floor to the wall.

 

He'd ruined her, he really had. She had always seen herself as a whole person who'd never required someone else to make her complete. She'd cared about Shawn for years; had loved him long before he'd been able to get past his issues to finally make a move at a time when both of them had been ready for it. She'd dated other people, before, but she'd never lost her soul in them. Never found a new kind of completeness that made them whole together. She wasn't sappy and she was far, _far_ from a hopeless romantic. But she also knew what she had with Shawn was outside of the ordinary. And having to face losing that had felt like dying. His heart beat under his shirt, under her ear. She closed her eyes to listen to its thump.

 

It was the sound of movement in the other room that finally pulled them apart enough to share eye contact. Shawn's eyes were as wet as hers and without thinking, Juliet reached up to wipe her thumb beneath his eye. He flinched, and she froze. Then, shuddering through a sniff, he leaned his face into her hand.

 

She wiped his tears. When she finished, she rested her palm against his face.

 

“I love you. And I miss you so much.” Her voice was high in sorrow.

 

Shawn sniffed again and a fresh tear rolled alongside his nose. Then, to her shock, he edged forward in an awkward kiss. It was fumbled and wet, but desperate too – all of his terror bunched up in that mash of lips against hers. She was aware of Henry, nearby, but that was a distant thing. She didn't know how to return the surprise of intimacy. She ached to deepen the kiss – to wrap her arms around his neck and make him see how much she loved him. But she agonized that doing so would hurt this sudden boldness.

 

The last time they'd spent a night together had been casual and sweet; “spooning it up tight”, as Shawn had been fond of calling it. Most of it had involved cuddling. Shawn could be a fantastic cuddler when he wasn't distracted. He tended to wrap her in his limbs – all clingy arms and legs covered in scratchy hair. And, boy, had she ever been glad she'd introduced him to mani pedis because out of control toenails were a deal breaker. And it wasn't particularly noteworthy and it wasn't “earthshaking” and it wasn't the sort of night that resulted in their hearts pounding out of their chests...

 

But now it was all she could think of... when she missed him so much that she hurt. When she literally felt pain slicing through her body because he was gone even when he was there. And she hated the selfishness of her ache because none of this was about her but, God, she needed him!

 

And then the kiss ended – in the same haphazard way it had begun as Shawn pulled her back into a hug that was both clumsy and gentle.

 

After a moment, his head lifted again and he was looking at her. Then he tipped his face, his hand lifting towards the soft strands brushing her shoulders.

 

“You cut your hair.”

 

Juliet nodded. “I did.” And without warning she broke out in sobs. Shawn's fingers cupped around her face and wiped her tears just as she had smoothed the wet from his cheeks earlier. He kissed her again, and then Juliet leaned her head against his chest as they let the emotions soothe between them.

 

The shuddering beneath Shawn's skin had settled. Juliet rubbed his back for a few moments before finally attempting to guide him towards the other room where Henry had been silently tidying up. Shawn walked close beside her and Juliet gave him the lead on where they should sit. She was relieved when he selected the couch – allowing her to sit beside him.

 

Shawn didn't let go of her, even as they sat – his hand wrapped around hers in a grip as desperate as their embrace had been.

 

When they were settled, Henry set down the DVDs he'd been sorting and sank down into one of the overstuffed chairs near the couch. He leaned forward over his knees and clasped his hands together as he studied his son.

 

Meanwhile, Shawn's thumb twitched back and forth across Juliet's hand and she could feel the muscles tense in the leg pressed against her thigh.

 

She gave a gentle squeeze back and looked towards Henry with worry.

 

After a moment of Henry evaluating his son, Juliet watching Henry with anxiety, and Shawn staring at the wall, the older man sighed out.

 

“What happened, kid?”

 

Shawn didn't immediately speak, nor did he turn his focus from the wall. In another few moments, though, he shook his head and then swallowed – his throat making a sticky click.

 

“I'm uh...” He sniffed and used his free hand to brush at the wet still lingering along his jaw. “I'm thinking... I might need a new phone.”

 

 

~~~

 

 

Warm coffee in a paper cup settled in front of Woods as Lassiter reclaimed the metal chair on his side of the table. Though Woods wasn't under arrest and, technically was free to leave if he chose to, he hadn't demanded his rights. Lassiter had a substantial file of unpaid parking tickets if he really wanted to push for some sort of arrest but, for the moment, Woods was making his job easy.

 

An officer showed up with a bag lunch a few minutes later and Lassiter tossed a Reuben across the table while he claimed the corned beef on heavy rye. He popped the top on his Coke and took a sip while Woods delicately peeled the greasy paper from one end of his sandwich. They ate; Lassiter watching the other man as he chewed. Meanwhile, Woods propped his elbows on the table and devoured his meal like he hadn't fed on nearly a week.

 

Lassiter had put in a lot of good time breaking the man down. Now it was time to build him back up again and see what he had.

 

Five minutes made short work of the meal – Lassiter still had half a sandwich by the time Woods was down to just a pickle. Setting aside the rest of his corned beef, Lassiter lifted a napkin to clean up. He casually swiped the crumbs off onto the floor.

 

“Good?”

 

Rubbing under his nose, Woods nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

 

Lassiter nodded. “You bet.”

 

He let Woods finish his soda. He shoved their garbage into the paper bag. Then, leaning forward, he clasped his hands together. “What happened with your ex-wife?”

 

Tightly wound that morning, argumentative and crude, the look Woods had now was of a defeated man finally discovering an ally. Maybe he had. Arms spread out wide, hands flat on the metal, Woods looked up at Lassiter. After a moment, he chuffed out something that sounded like a weak laugh.

 

“I never really saw it until years later. How cruel she could be. See, she had this side that was so... sweet. She could be kind. I... I loved her, then. But towards the end...” Woods took a hand from the table to scrub the heel of his palm under one eye. There was a tremble in his fingers.

 

Lassiter watched as the other man dropped his hand back down to the table where he proceeded to trace the tips of his fingers back and forth across the surface.

 

“What happened, Alan?”

 

The sharp and stifled suck of wet air through his nose was a significant response as Alan Woods fought down something painful and likely embarrassing.

 

“She was starting to slip even before she lost the baby. Things got so bad after that, though. We always argued. Hell, calling it fighting is an understatement. Cops got called out to the house a buncha times cause Rhonda would flip out and start throwing shit. Then, 'bout a month after she miscarried she, uh... she got the book.”

 

Lassiter leaned a little closer. “The Yang book.”

 

Woods nodded. “Read it all the time. Carried it around like a...” He choked on that. It was an easy guess what his analogy would have been. Another moment of struggle before his throat stopped jumping.

 

“It was around this time that I met Sa... my girlfriend.”

 

Rather than press for a name and take them off track, Carlton didn't comment on the slip. Far down the list of preferred interrogative methods, he was more than capable of making use of silence to get answers. While he loved getting into a perp's face with sarcasm and threats, he knew it wasn't a method that worked for every interrogation.

 

Woods was looking down at his open palms. There was a small white scar on the heel of his thumb that looked like a burn.

 

“I started staying out late. It was innocent at first, really. Drinks and stuff. And Rhonda didn't even notice. It was like... she was glad I wasn't there.” He shrugged. “Anyway...” He'd reverted to looking at everything in the room except for Lassiter.

 

The feeling was back. The feeling of recognition. The way Woods was acting struck at something thick and oozing and Lassiter felt a hollow kind of echo through his gut. A trail of goosebumps lifted across his forearms and he actually shuddered. Not often that Lassiter could feel the silence of an interrogation. There was a stillness to it. It was delicate, too; broken with the shift of clothing; shattered with the scrape of a chair against the floor. A breath at the wrong time would destroy the soap bubble. Lassiter didn't breathe.

 

“Came home real late one night. Rhonda was asleep and I was... well I was kinda wasted so I didn't even bother stripping down. Not even sure I made it under the blanket. Don't know how long I was out but... but when I woke up...”

 

The swallowed air turned into stone under Lassiter's collarbone. That feeling... it had a face now.

 

He'd seen that face. He'd heard that tremble. He was a cop and taking statements, no matter what they were, was a part of the job. He was supposed to feel like he'd won a marathon – beat Rocky Balboa up the steps of the Capitol and had a statue of himself carved at the top astride a rearing white stallion.

 

He didn't feel any of that, though.

 

He felt like throwing up and that was a humiliating reality. And it wasn't the story and it wasn't any of that empathy shit. Except it was... in a way. And the smell of old blood and fresh sweat. It was everything he'd heard before – details never erased and blistered across his brain. Carved there in fits and choked gasps. Embedded...

 

There was nothing more that he really had to hear. It could all stop right now but it would still be too late. Too late even if not another word stumbled free.

 

Because he knew.

 

On the other side of the table, Alan lifted his head.

 

He was crying.

 


	21. Since Birth Almost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter to make up for the long delay!

Burton Guster – best friend, secret keeper, and brother from another mother, father, and genealogical branch to Shawn Spencer – stood on the porch currently housing his platonic other half with his fist an inch shy of knocking on the wood.

 

Two weeks since the guy had busted out the Psych window and this was after three months of “I'm fine” and “keen as a peach”, the latter nearly enough to earn a chest punch after the third repeat. Three months of cancelled lunches and early nights. Three months of knowing Shawn was keeping secrets but not knowing how to talk about those secrets – boy thought he was sly about his secrets but secrets weren't so secret when they had the fermented whiff of cheap booze. Like Shawn had ever kept his trauma drinking private, c'mon son!

 

Never this bad before, though – the drinking. Shawn had never dealt with a horror this bad before either. Not even when Mary had died in his arms and he'd drank himself into a stupor three nights in a row following that whole event.

 

Okay, Shawn wasn't an alcoholic. Even if this whole train of thought was just in his head, Gus wanted to make certain that statement was made. Yeah, his buddy could get amazingly, mind-bendingly drunk on the rare occasion and wake up with the puking hangovers the next morning. But drinking in secret was not his style and never had been.

 

Except... lately it had been just that.

 

And Gus hadn't said anything. But then, Shawn hadn't been talking. Shawn had been “just fine” and “keen as a peach” and had deflected anything deeper. And Gus was the best friend who “understood” even though accommodating had never been his style so he'd let Shawn deflect and redirect and reference pop music from 1987 and the two of them, together, had pretended everything was exactly the same as always. He didn't ask about the lingering stink of Budweiser or the blossoming interest Shawn had been showing in office maintenance even though he'd lost interest in hygiene maintenance. Not that shaving had ever been habitual with the boy and he tended to favor somewhat baggy clothes even before... but he'd always been keenly invested in his hair.

 

Gus was still standing outside the door – knuckles not quite brushing the peeled paint.

 

Shawn had called him that morning and asked if he wanted to come over. Hanging out with Shawn at the office, house, and beach had been a weekly thing and had been, on the surface, more or less normal. But Shawn hadn't personally invited him to come over in a very long time. It had been Gus to initiate contact or Henry asking Gus if he wanted to have dinner. And now Gus was... nervous. Because... because no matter how normal they pretended it was and no matter how many hairband references popped up in conversation... he didn't know _this_ Shawn anymore...

 

“Gus?”

 

He jumped, badly, and his knuckles scraped across the wood and he could feel the needle prick of slivers biting deep.

 

He looked to the left, further left, and then turned until he could take in the picnic table resting in the shade and the figure taking up a corner of the bench on the far side. Shawn. Elbows on the rough wood top and long sleeves in spite of the heat. Other than that, he looked so normal so... “Shawn”... Gus felt the tickle of saline at the back of his eyes. No way to claim sympathetic tears this time, unless he was sympathizing with himself, he smoothly scratched his nose and prepared to blame the bright sun for the eye shine if his buddy called him out.

 

Choosing a corner of the table where the heat of the sun could warm his back, Gus sat down.

 

Across from him, Shawn dug his thumbnail against a narrow sliver of loose wood. He could never sit still without something to occupy him. His desk at the office was littered with toys, not so much because he was an overgrown child (though certainly that was a factor), but because of his obsessive need to “fiddle”. Henry had signed him up for juggling when Shawn was ten. It wasn't out of a need to give Shawn a new outlet, either, but because Shawn had been trying to learn on his own and several fragile items had met grim fates for his efforts. Of course, the end result was that Shawn immediately wanted to join the circus and had even made contact with a run down troupe before Henry had dragged his cape bedecked son back home again – whining all the way about his delicate spirit being crushed by a cruel and inhumane regime.

 

Picking a topic out of the air (and wasn't that a weird concept when conversation never used to require ice breaking between them) Gus licked his lips. “So... how's your dad?”

 

Shawn stopped prying at the wood sliver and tweaked up a brow. “How's my dad?” He tipped his head a little to give Gus a bemused look before shrugging, his nail once more working at the bit of wood. “Dad's awesome. Great, really. Dude,” he suddenly reached across the table and smacked Gus in the arm, “you won't believe this!”

 

The bright shine in his eyes was enough to make Gus bounce his heels against the grass under his sneakers. Shawn was actually grinning – an excitement that had been missing for an agonizing length of time. It was impossible not to return that grin. “What?”

 

Shawn actually wiggled in his seat. “He's working a vampire case!”

 

Gus's eyes popped wide. “Whaat?”

 

Nodding, Shawn went into detail about the victim found with fang holes in his wrist and throat and the fact that the body was drained of blood. It was right out of movie and despite his hemophobia, Gus knew this was a case custom made for Psych. If... if only they were still working cases...

 

The reminder of that absence cut right through him and Gus felt a sudden lump work up under the collar of his shirt. They would have had so much fun on this case. Shawn... would have had so much fun. And Gus had been dying to bust out that vampire kit he'd bought from Willow Grimbly two years ago.

 

“Your dad have any leads?”

 

Shawn snorted. “He totally blew off my Lestat theory and insists it's just some 'deranged sicko with a vampire fetish' - please.”

 

Gus snorted back. Like Henry would ever buy into any notion that possibly involved the complex and mysterious world of the supernatural. His fingertips tapped on the table. Eyes drifted towards the distant beach, he glanced at Shawn from his peripheral. Catching the repeated stare, Shawn finally gestured with his hand.

 

“Go on; you know it's killing you, man.”

 

Words barely spoken before Gus made clawed hands. “Sookie is mine!”

 

He'd been dying to do that – seriously – and long before he had the solid excuse to do so. “So if we were working this case...”

 

“We're not.” Shawn went back to prying at the wood sliver – finally peeling up a long strip that he proceeded to shred like a solid hunk of string cheese. Not angry, though, in his shutting down. More like, wistful.

 

Not so much poking the bear as tickling Elmo, Gus found his own wood fibre to pluck as he pushed the conversation out of just theory. “Have you asked your dad?”

 

He noticed the shrug under his covert examination.

 

“He didn't ask.”

 

“I didn't ask if he asked, Shawn, I asked if you asked.”

 

The both stopped their work to mull over that sentence. Shawn was the first to shake his head and give up on whatever dangling participles he thought he'd heard as he got back to the more interesting project of table peeling.

 

“I... _might_ have forwarded the suggestion that he check out an underground bar called “Thicker Than Water”.”

 

Gus frowned, both at the odd name as well as the sudden stab of a yet another sliver driving home – this time from his inattentive table peeling technique. Hissing, he felt a curl of discomfort at the drop of blood welling on his fingertip. “Thicker Than Wa...? Wait... Shawn, did you send your dad to a vampire bar!?”

 

“And he refused to let me help him to blend in. Couple of hair buns strategically glued in place, he's a dead-ringer for Dracula. Oldman, not Bela. Well Bella...”

 

“Shawn.”

 

Gus leaned forward before Shawn could drift off on the Twilight franchise and the debate about which character looked better shirtless. It was Jake. It would always be Jake and they both knew it so it was stupid to keep rehashing the argument. “How did you even find this place?”

 

Shawn snorted. “Easy. I just Googled “creepy underground vampire club. It was like, the second listing.”

 

“Dare I ask what the first one was?” Gus made some progress in removing one of the splinters bristling from his flesh.

 

“Would you believe Barnes and Noble?”

 

Both of them slid into pondering that. Then juicy gossip overtook wherever Gus's brain had been taking him. “Dude, you won't believe this, but Lassiter has a girlfriend!”

 

Sure enough, Shawn's eyes widened in shock. “You're right – I absolutely do not believe that! Wait, same approximate age or are we talking some sorta twisted geriatric, wealthy, widowed and mostly blind vixen of Shady Pines?”

 

“Same approximate age, seems mentally healthy, and, Shawn, she is smokin hot!”

 

Shawn looked genuinely impressed as he rubbed his upper lip. “Is she a prostitute?”

 

Gus pulled a hard frown, ready to lecture his friend on the crass assumption when he actually considered the question. “Actually I'm not...”

 

The door at his back opened, surprising them both. While Gus only turned his head to look, Shawn's whole body jerked and he shrank back before recognition erased that fast fear. Another reminder that, no matter how comfortable they might pretend to be, there was a difference now...

 

“Hey, Mr. Spencer.”

 

“Hey, Gus, Shawn.”

 

Recovered from his little moment of panic, Shawn nodded towards his father. “How goes the hunt there, Van Helsing?”

 

“It's fine. Shawn, have you seen my Maglite? You know, the one that comes with the accessories in the handle?” Searching while speaking, Henry bent at the waist to peer through the stairs leading from the back deck.

 

“Woah, wait... are you going on a stake out?” On his feet next, Shawn rubbed sweat from his forehead before cramming both hands into the front pocket of his hoodie.

 

“I am and, no, you're not. And, no, I'm not dressing up like some sort of Halloween reject so feel free to keep your fangs to yourself.”

 

Shawn's pulled back lips and a soft hiss choked out as he slouched in the shadows at the end of the table. “Admit it. You're afraid you'll actually like it. I know; it takes a lot of man to handle that level of unnatural sexiness.”

 

“Right now, kid, I'm only interested in getting a handle on my Maglite.”

 

All three of the paused; passing around the sudden tweak of discomfort like a hot potato. Henry was the first to huff out his breath and make for the garage at the other side of the driveway. Shawn's lips, peeled back in unease rather than a mocking leer this time, glanced at the mirrored expression of his best pal before rocking forward off of the table to follow his father's stride. Gus trailed in third place.

 

Shawn had stopped just outside the garage; shouldered up against the threshold while the sounds of boxes shoving back and forth carried out through the open door. From the sound of things, one box didn't quite stick its landing – the slide followed by a shout from Henry and a clatter on tiny projectiles. In fact, it sounded like...

 

“Oh, hey, my marbles!”

 

Followed immediately by the muffled, head in a stack of crates, reply from Henry. “Huh – I thought you'd lost those years ago.”

 

Which was followed, of course, by the almost too precious and guileless comment from Shawn. “I did! I can't believe you found them!”

 

Gus moved into the garage after his buddy. “Dude, your dad meant... You know, never mind.”

 

Shawn, missing every aspect of the conversation, was already crouched by the toppled pile of random stuff. Not just marbles, but toy cars, plastic California Grapes figurines, and over a dozen McDonald's mini LEGO sets cluttered the cement. Gus grabbed the helicopter LEGO set; mouth dipping down at the neat marker lines on the bottom that spelled out his name. No doubt he'd find the same designation of ownership on ALL the sets scattered about. Shawn, though, was busy gathering his marbles (and Gus could not stop the smile sneaking across his face at that thought). Cat's eyes and aggies, comets and smokey semi-transparent orbs, steelies, swirls, and a tiny collection of shooters. Shawn gathered as many as he could in one hand before they started to spill through his fingers – then pulling out the hem of his shirt to catch the overflow.

 

Somewhere deeper in the garage, Henry made a satisfied rumble before he began pushing through the racks of random Spencer junk. The blazing beam of the maglight was over-bright even in the patchy shadows of the garage – Gus squinting while Shawn gave into a slightly more dramatic clap of one hand over his eyes – the other hand still cradling his hoard.

 

“Really? That was totally necessary – with the blinding laser beam burning out the back of my skull!”

 

The light clicked off again and Gus was rewarded with Henry – smiling as he passed his son after a quick head pat. Shawn ducked away from the touch but it was irritation rather than fear that turned his features. Marbles clacking together in the soft basket of his shirt front, looking like a mismatched batch of brightly colored frog's eggs, Shawn wobbled as he kept his little 'brood' close while he rose back to his feet. Gus held a bicep until his friend balanced out. A nod and smile and they both left the dank space – Shawn losing several marbles on the way out – tiny bouncing clacks trailing them.

 

Henry was getting back into his truck as the two younger men crossed towards the house.

 

“I'll be out late. There's some leftover salmon in the bottom drawer of the fridge if you boys are hungry.”

 

As the truck backed from the drive, Gus gave his friend a look.

 

“Kingston's?”

 

Shawn couldn't spare a hand for a fist bump so they knocked elbows. “You know that's right.”

 

 

~~~

 

Between the two of them, they'd managed to pack away nearly three pounds of jerk chicken along with several baskets of cheesy biscuits. Though Shawn had kept his intake to less than a pound he was still feeling a tad bloated and uncomfortable. Been a while since he'd eaten so much in one sitting. Gus, though, was already waffling between chocolate lava cake and the blue ribbon peach cobbler from the dessert menu. He went with the cake after a reminder than nobody could beat Winnie Guster's peach cobbler with homemade cinnamon cream topping.

 

There was too much silence in the space between dinner and dessert. Shawn stirred the ice in his coke. He hadn't really had a good back and forth with his buddy since the “office incident”. Like, yeah, they'd talked... but it had all been about business... more or less. Shawn had gotten a new phone. He'd wanted to change the number on the office line too but they were struggling for clients as it was without messing with an established number. Gus had insisted on changing the locks, though, and Shawn hadn't bothered arguing. _She_ was behind bars after all...

 

“Listen, Gus...”

 

“I don't care what you say, Shawn, I am not sharing my cake.”

 

Jaw still dangling open as the moment of impending emotional sharing was intercepted by Gus's ever-present sweetness greed; God bless him. Shawn's chuckle started small – shoulders shaking as it built up through his ribs. Until it was too much to keep inside and he was grinning and wiping moisture from his cheeks and flooded with warmth as Gus laughed back; his eyes just... _knowing_.

 

How often would he require the reminder that he didn't need confirmation that Gus would always be there for him? After three decades of friendship – thinking he still needed a status check – thinking Gus would give up on him.

 

He kept wiping his eyes, well aware that they both knew the wet wasn't all caused from laughter.

 

Shawn nodded across the space they shared. “Thanks, buddy.”

 

He got a nod back and a shoulder shrug. “C'mon son.”

 

Gus still didn't share his cake.

 

 


	22. It's Going to be a Good Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for taking forever in getting this chapter posted! I appreciate all of the patience and I promise to get the remaining chapters posted asap!!

Funny, the changes that could take place in six weeks. Shawn had officially returned to work at Psych and he'd gotten a new apartment – a real one with windows and curtains and everything. Gus had gotten a promotion, Lassie had gotten engaged to a felon, and... Shawn had put on his big boy pants and finally told Juliet he had been bald-faced lying to her for the past seven years. Okay, maybe not funny. Not funny at all... really.

 

He'd thought about how he'd tell her. How many times had he wanted to? But the picture of what would happen if he did... was nowhere near as bad as what actually happened. That betrayal. That hurt. She'd needed time – afterwards. To think. His own brain couldn't stop thinking. Back through the past eight months and all the ways that Juliet had tried, so hard, to support him and love him and somehow keep to a comfortable distance (for him) at the same time. While he'd been wrapped in his own hurts. While he'd been blurring everything with alcohol. While he'd been shoving every person in his life as far away from him as possible. She'd stayed. She'd believed in him – in every way. And all that time he'd still been... lying. And he couldn't even lie to himself, anymore, that lying through omission wasn't really lying. So what that he hadn't “been” a psychic, fake or otherwise, since... Since _then_. He was, again, now.

 

And it was that choice, to return to work, that had finally triggered the need to confess it all.

 

_He was so good at setting the stage. Timing, though... It always came down to the timing. Schedule an impromptu romantic dinner at the office – neglect to factor in the active undercover case and Juliet's obsession with busting a roller derby burglary gang. Plan one of a thousand confessions of love – yet just. spitting. it. out. had been an insurmountable obstacle for...ever. Always the right moment but never the right... him. There wasn't a right him anymore. He was a different him, but, no, that wasn't right either. He was him, but damaged. He was the dented box that always got put back on the shelf in favor of the perfect package towards the back._

 

_He'd planned everything in detail. And when he actually took the time to plan things, his details were perfect. They met at his apartment – a neutral place with none of the associations of the Psych office. His barely lived in new home was a box with carpet – not the den of lies where he and Gus had been making a living while scamming everyone._

 

_Juliet was wearing jeans when she arrived that evening. Jeans and one of her pale blouses with flowers on the billowy sleeve. She looked like summertime. It had made the words stumble from Shawn's lips – God she was beautiful! How was it that his memory could never seem to hold on to just how beautiful she was?_

 

“ _So what was it you wanted to talk about?” And she was smiling, just a bit. And her cheeks were pink. And suddenly the offer to have her visit his new home in the evening with the lights tuned down had hammering into his chest with all of the unintended implications he'd set into motion. And it had been panic mixed in his retreat towards the kitchen - “just gonna grab a bottle of water, you want one?” No need to look towards the couch to see her hurt quickly buried beneath understanding he didn't deserve._

 

_He didn't sit down when he returned. He gave Juliet the water she hadn't asked for before guzzling most of his. Juliet had noticed the hesitation. Her comment on it hung between them without her even speaking._

 

“ _Jules... I...”_

 

_When it truly mattered, when all of fate was wrapped in his words, they could never fly from his mouth like so much of the senselessness that made up his conversations. Verbs and adverbs and adjectives by the bucket load – sentence structure he didn't have a name for, was probably illegal in some countries only Gus knew of, and he could make conversation with ALL of it, just give him an inch and he'd filibuster that bad boy into the next year!_

 

_But when it mattered..._

 

“ _Jules, I...”_

 

_Stuttering shivering stop. Mouth lumbering open but the words were glued to the back of his teeth. Juliet, still sitting on the couch, still holding the unopened bottle of water, and now he saw the fear he'd made. Before he could even force out language that connected, in any way, to his over rehearsed speech..._

 

“ _Oh my God, Shawn, are you... trying to say...” And her words wobbled to nothing as well – just as bad as he, with the important things. And, unlike Juliet, he did know what had seeped into her mind from his staggered start._

 

“ _No – no, no, no, sweetheart, no! No, I'm not trying to break up with you! God, no!” Rambling, now, as her fingers first brushed over her lips before resting against her eyes. But it was just getting worse – like a boil under the skin – an agonizing inflammation._

 

“ _You remember, when you were a kid, and it was Christmastime – and you'd be so excited because you knew, you just knew, Santa was going to bring you presents because you'd been good all year? And you could barely sleep at night because you just couldn't wait. But then, you started to get older, and started putting together two and two and maybe; maybe you caught your mom wrapping something or you realized your chimney was just way too small...”_

 

“ _Shawn, what are you getting at?”_

 

“ _Santa, Jules. Remember... remember when you realized he wasn't real? And, yeah, it sucked but at the same time, maybe it was okay too, because you still got the gifts, right? And – and, and maybe you found out you didn't really care because, even though it was all make believe, there was still something magical about it, right? It was still magic and fun and you still looked forward to the tree and the presents and...”_

 

_Juliet had been quiet. She never let him ramble so long without an intermission and, so used to the forced breaks in his monologues, he'd stopped the babble himself._

 

_He didn't notice when she'd stood up. He did notice the tears now freely sliding down her cheeks. Her head shaking back and forth, just once._

 

_Her words choked. “After everything... EVERYTHING... All of this” her hands encompassed his frame in their gesture and he felt the sear of her pain like buckshot, “was a lie?”_

 

_He was stapled to the floor – even his head too fixed to nod. But he could close his eyes. And in her next shaking breath, remembering every time he'd fabricated his life while inviting her to join it. Oh so small piece of himself yet woven into every part of his life with her. Sudden cold terror that unwinding it would unravel his whole world. He didn't think he could survive that a second time._

 

_She hadn't slapped him before leaving. He wouldn't have blamed her if she had. She... hadn't said anything._

 

It was four days before she called him. Longer, still, before she would agree to see him face to face. Only last week had she told him she was willing to give him a second chance.

 

He hadn't deserved her in the first place. But even more than that, in no way did he deserve her forgiveness. Awkward on top of awkward given the loss of extremely intimate intimacy... since that day. He could kiss her again, for the most part. He could wrap his hand in her fingers and sit with her through a movie (provided the lights were on and the doors were triple locked). They... he... hadn't tried more. _Try_ wasn't even on the books. Try was in an alternate universe where his whole life had played out in exactly the same way except he hadn't met with a particular client on a particular day. A universe where he had listened to the instincts that had screamed “Something is wrong with this!” when that client suggested they go to a hotel rather than to the cops. A universe where he'd fought back... where he'd tried harder... where he hadn't let her...

 

He'd have worked the vampire case, he knew that much. And instead of dad and Jules saving Lassie's life from a crazy blood sucking but very human not vampire with a crappy disease instead of nifty fangs, it would have been Gus and him – heroic and hero-y. The Chief would have probably given them medals. And he'd have told Jules about his secret a lot sooner – he knew that for a fact. He'd never have waited so long because he wouldn't have been so... terrified so... so frozen at the idea of losing her too after so much...

 

But she had forgiven him. But was it love or pity that had led her to that choice? To stay. He loved her though. God, he loved her! And the pain that was sewed up with that love was on a level he'd had no experience with before, save for losing Abigail. But where his break up with Abby had caused pain that had sunk through his limbs like frozen concrete, _this_ pain coupled with loving Juliet was... welcome. He wanted that pain. It meant something he couldn't quite figure out. But the fear of losing it... of changing it to frozen concrete... He couldn't lose her. He'd die.

 

He hadn't deserved her forgiveness but he couldn't have lived without it. He wondered how he'd survived all those months without her daily presence. But then... he hadn't been living. And maybe the pain was the result of a sleeping body finally waking up.

 

He'd tried to stop drinking. Mostly. Another change. A condition wrapped in the forgiveness Juliet had offered. Not that she hadn't forgiven him – or wouldn't have anyway – but she'd demanded he start seeing someone about his alcohol dependency. A dependency he hadn't even acknowledged before she'd spelled it out with a trash can loaded with bottles and cans.

 

There were some nights he still stumbled into a bottle, but there was support, now. There was a renewed reason to keep fighting.

 

“You ready?”

 

Gus brought the present back to Shawn's meandering brain thoughts – the intrusive query a welcome one as it simultaneously cleared away some of the sinking haze of sadness that always seemed to float alongside introspection.

 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure.” Shawn drummed his knuckles against his desktop while Gus shuffled papers back into the file he'd been reading. Keys were scooped up next – twitchy and impatient, he played out the whole 'walking on broken glass' thing so perfectly he'd be lucky to avoid copyright infringement with Sony Records.

 

An overly enthusiastic shove from his desk, fortunate that his chair wheels didn't topple him straight to the floor, Shawn heaved upright and snatched the keys before Gus could react to the abrupt shift in activity.

 

“Man, I've been sitting here waiting – we still going out for crepes?”

 

Forgetting, or at least forgiving the key theft, Gus dipped his head as he increased his stride towards the door. “You know that's right. I have been hankering for some chocolate cherry jubilee.”

 

“Hankering?” Shawn bullied through the door first, winning the shoulder battle before it had truly begun. “Who are you, Ed Tom Bell?”

 

Gus snatched back his keys before stabbing a pointed finger towards Shawn's left eye. “Dude, do not compare me to Tommy Lee Jones.” He bleeped both doors open – tossing the police file inside before dropping in behind the wheel.

 

Shawn took a smidge longer in working open his door – his brow crinkling. “You just have a problem with the three names thing.” He, too, finally wedged into the tiny car and slumped against the seat. “Which is extra ironic considering both Tommy Lee and his character have three names.”

 

Starting the ignition and backing from the space, Gus shook his head. “Okay, first of all, something can't be extra ironic. And secondly, you and I both know that people who use all three names tend to be serial killers.”

 

A nod as Shawn adjusted the seatbelt across his chest – his slouch allowing the woven fabric to cut uncomfortably across his neck. “True that. Kathie Lee Gifford, Lou Diamond Phillips, Chad Michael Murray...”

 

Gus jerked his chin. “I rest my case.”

 

Yanking the belt from his tender neck flesh, Shawn tucked it under his arm rather than straighten in his seat. Gus immediately slammed his foot against the brake – jarring them both.

 

“Dude, what have I told you...”

 

“Seriously?” At the ongoing glare, Shawn huffed and readjusted his belt. “Happy, Wanda Worry?”

 

Smiling now, Gus pulled out of the lot. “You'll thank me, if we're ever in an accident, when your body isn't severed in half.”

 

Yanking at the uncomfortable strap again, Shawn moped against the window. “What about my head? Won't that get severed from my neck?”

 

Gus paused a moment before sliding the little car into traffic. “Not if you sit up straight like a proper young man.”

 

“Gus!” Shawn wriggled, whimpered, kicked, and shimmied until he could finally wrestle himself moderately upright. “When were you going to tell me you'd switched bodies with your mother?”

 

A snort as Gus took a left. “While we're on the subject, your shirt collar is inside out.” He waited for three cars to pass before cutting across the last cross street and into the Flat Cakes parking lot. Shawn muttered as he fixed his shirt, fluffed his hair, and checked his teeth for leftover toaster strudel. While he'd have been more than happy to further destroy his appearance for the sake of petulance, Gus was not Henry. Also, ultimately the rebellion would only backfire if the waitress staff chose to kick him out for looking like a shiftless layabout.

 

“Fine. But now you have to buy me the Double-Decker Flat Stack with a side of bacon rolls.”

 

“Like I wasn't going to be paying anyhow.”

 

 

~

 

 

 

Sweat scattered across her chest; peppered in heaves of breath as pain ripped from her center to the back of her throat. Too early! She wasn't prepared – none of them were. But there was no turning back now. Worse, though, was the position. She'd heard a nurse say “breech” before her doctor confirmed it.

 

“I want to stay awake!” She had to be awake! She had waited for this for far too long! She had to see it through!

 

Her friend; her only friend in this entire, miserable place, held her hand as another contraction clenched her insides into knots. Martha wiped the sweat from her face while the doctor's cold hand examined her. A second later he shook his head.

 

“Sorry. You won't be delivering this baby without a cesarean. And I mean right now.”

 

Rhonda clenched her friend's hand; panicked. “No, no, please don't let them put me to sleep! I have to be awake! Not now! Isn't there anything they can give me – stop the contractions – something...”

 

Martha rubbed her fingers. “Sweetheart, I'm sorry, but your water broke. They have to do the procedure right now! It will be okay, I promise!”

 

But it wasn't okay! None of this was right! Where was Shawn? “I want Shawn! Please, I can't go without Shawn!” She screamed – trying to kick only to have her legs restrained. One of her hands still gripped Martha's, the older woman doing her best to try to soothe her. But Rhonda jerked her face away from the caress. She wanted Shawn's hands to touch her face! She wanted Shawn's voice to soothe and encourage her! She wanted Shawn to be the one to be with her as she gave birth to their child! Her sobs garbled her words as she cried for him – eyes staring towards the far door of the room. He would come for her! If he knew, he would be here in an instant! “Did you call him? Did anyone call him? Please, he needs to know! I need Shawn!”

 

Rhonda held tight to Martha, even as several medical assistants latched onto her gurney and started to race her through the double doors. “Martha, please! Please don't let them do this! I need Shawn! I need Shawn!”

 

She refused to release the other woman – gripping her fingers until the IV was inserted in her arm – until the sedative entering into the vein took away her strength and her will. Until the last awareness finally faded to soft gray.

 

 

~

 

 

The thick wheels bumped over the uneven floor. She ignored the staff on either side of her chair – her focus on the span of glass at the end of the hallway. This wasn't the daydream. She wasn't in a rocking chair in a pastel room surrounded by giant stuffed animals. She wasn't holding her baby to her breast for that first nursing; a mother bonding to child. And her beloved wasn't standing beside her with his arm across her shoulders – his face filled with pride. That last, as always, stung the most. She battled against the fresh tears that pushed against her eyelids. She understood that his work kept him away but to miss the birth of his firstborn... But she really did understand. The sudden labor had been unexpected. She wasn't supposed to have been due for at least three more weeks. She had wanted everything to be perfect, but now, nothing was.

 

Her chair rolled the last few feet to the window. It was hard to see from that low angle but pushing up with her shaky arms reawoke the subdued pain in her lower belly. She whimpered and held herself. A hand, heavy and warm, pressed down against shoulder. “Don't do that, hon. Here, let me get you closer to the window.”

 

Martha moved the wheelchair another few inches. It didn't help much but it was enough. On the other side of the glass and six feet away, her tiny newborn slept in an incubator. The small chest lifted up and down with every breath. A soft crown of dark hair covered the tiny scalp. Puckered pink lips opened in a wide yawn and miniature fingers curled into a fist.

 

Martha leaned against the window, clucking her tongue. “Just the most precious thing I've ever seen. Have you thought of a name?”

 

Rhonda shoved a knuckle against her eye – her breath stuttering against the tears.

 

“Shawn. After his daddy.”

 


	23. Told a Story About a Man Who is Too Afraid to Fly So He Never Did Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connections are made.
> 
> Connections are severed.
> 
> A Gift is Given.

Juliet had never been the “sleep in late” type. Even on vacation days, she would be up before the sun and ready for a morning run. However, while she was a creature of routine, things had changed a bit since she'd started dating Shawn. At first, she'd attempted to get him to join in. His eating habits were much the same since childhood and, though he'd enjoyed a lot of years reaping the benefits of a high metabolism, his lack of a steady work-out regime had finally started to catch up with him. Not that she at all minded his little belly or that bit of added softness in his hugs, it was his presence she most wanted to share. Both of their schedules made it difficult to arrange personal time together and a morning run had seemed the ideal solution. She hadn't really considered, though, how much Shawn enjoyed sleeping in. Not in those early weeks of their relationship. Going on over a year, now, she was well aware of the siren call of Shawn's bed.

 

The double entendre was enough to heat her throat as Juliet tightened the last lace on her sneaker. Pain was the immediate follow – loss of something precious and intimate that had been shared for fewer months than they'd actually been together as a couple. They'd been strong enough to survive Shawn's assault. They'd been strong enough to survive The Lie as well, though she'd spent as much time analyzing what had motivated her forgiveness as she'd spent picking apart every nuance of how The Lie had impacted her love in the first place. It wasn't for pity, she'd finally been able to assure herself. And maybe it had more to do with her own healing than Shawn's. Growing up with an absentee father who'd fabricated his way through her childhood had crafted her views on relationships to the point she'd cringed at the suggestion of “forever”. And not because she didn't desire it – she did. Emphatically. Too much – even. And that was too much to risk. That her heart might not take it if she walked her mother's path. Yet, it was that choice of separation – of taking time away from Shawn, regardless of his own fragility, that had given her the perspective she'd been so afraid to pursue. The idea that there were things that were worth the risk of pain. That Shawn was worth the risk.

 

Nearly 7:30. It was the last day of her weekend so she didn't mind the late start. Purring weight slid against her legs as she filled a water bottle and clipped her phone to her waist. The broken rumble escalated to a skipping mew when kibble wasn't immediately presented.

 

“Hey, breakfast isn't until eight! You're getting to be a bit of a chubster.” Juliet knelt to finally offer a little affection to the patchwork cat. A surprise gift from Shawn after the death of her second cat a few years ago. The tiny calico hadn't grown much since kittenhood, though she really was starting to show a bit of roundness. No doubt being spoiled on treats from her “stepdad” again. Juliet rubbed the peachy colored noggin. “I'll be back soon, okay?” Not okay given the drawn out complaint, but Juliet was used to the chatty arguments.

 

Stepping over the furred tripping hazard, she pulled her hair back in a ponytail – and jumped as her phone buzzed against her hip.

 

“Hey, Shawn, you change your mind about going for a run?”

 

A long breath in the silence.

 

“ _...Jules...I...”_

 

And there was nothing more. Juliet wedged the phone into her shoulder as she mined keys from her purse.

 

“Give me ten minutes, Shawn, I'm on my way.”

 

 

**~**

 

 

He hadn't been drinking. She'd been prepared to find him with alcohol on his breath, but there had been no hint of it. No empties in the trash either and she recognized the significance while saying nothing about it. He'd been trying so hard and she'd been afraid that this event... this finality... would have destroyed his willpower. She wouldn't have blamed him. Even knowing it was coming, she'd felt her entire being weakened with each week that brought it closer. They hadn't talked of it. They should have, but there had already been so much... everything. Reaching a point where Shawn wouldn't tremble when she touched him had been a massive step forward. A step that they still wavered on now and then. A discussion about... a discussion about his... child... God, the words could barely form in her own head, how could she expect them to form in his?

 

The bare walls made her arms itch. Juliet couldn't help the impulse to cover them with something – photos or even some posters of obscure hair bands – anything to add the suggestion that someone occupied this place. Shawn's new apartment had never lost the echoey feel of an unsorted storage container. Nearly two months after his move, yet there were still boxes stacked near the wall. Never the neatest guy, Shawn had always managed, at least, some degree of relaxed cleanliness. Certainly no worst than any other guy she'd dated. But now... it was actually the lack of any clutter that unnerved her most about his new surroundings. Nothing personal beyond the curtains and rug she'd bought for him. He never left any dishes in the sink or clothes on the floor. He had a bed but she wondered if he ever slept in it – comforter and sheets immaculate every time she'd been to his place.

 

She sat on that bed now, listening through the recording a second time while Shawn sat across from her in one of his two chairs. The pads of his fingers moved in slow circles over red blushed lids. He hadn't spoken when she'd arrived – only passed her the phone with the message already in play.

 

When the voice finished, Juliet rested her knuckles against her lap – the phone screen going dark after a few moments of breathing.

 

“Shawn... are you...” _alright? Going to be okay?_ Always the same questions. Useless. Worse, insulting – as though she didn't already have that answer.

 

“Please let me help.” She leaned forward until he stopped pushing at his eyes – stopped pushing and dropped his hands to his knees – letting her see the red rimmed hazel. She didn't touch him but she didn't move away. “Please let me help you.”

 

“ _I'm trying to tell you, that I would protect you.”_

 

“ _And I would protect you right back.”_

 

It hung there – the remembrance of a spoken promise. Shawn licked his lips. His fingers tightened where they cupped his knees. So quiet in their space that Juliet could hear the rise of the wind outside the windows – the damp flutter of palm fronds against the glass.

 

Rough warmth slid across the back of her hands. Callouses and broken skin closed around her fingers. The chair creaked at the release of weight – knees creaking as they took that same weight – until it rested on the mattress beside her. A whole new collection of sounds from the compressing springs and sliding cotton blend.

 

Juliet leaned until her head rested against the soft fabric of Shawn's sweater. His heart beat was a steady movement beneath her cheek – his arm a yearned for weight across her shoulders – pulling her close enough that she could feel the hard swallow against her temple.

 

“Jules I... I don't know what to do.”

 

Her thumb brushed over his knuckles.

 

“We'll figure it out together.”

 

She was a cop. She knew how to speak with victims – knew the right words to say to offer assurance and comfort. But it wasn't her job to provide those comforts every day. She was the warrior; doing battle against enemies and bringing them down or bringing them to justice. That was the role that defined her the most. That, she could do, and she did it damn well.

 

But here... there was no enemy left to chase. There was no justice to be had. There was only the hurt. Pain that ebbed and swelled but never left. Just like waves, she was useless in trying to push it away – the tide flowing past her fingers and rising around her – pulling her into the current.

 

How could she provide rescue when she couldn't even swim?

 

Her fingers squeezed the hand in her grip. Shawn was breathing more deeply as his weight settled against her side. No question she'd be calling in – thank God for a light week and an excess of vacation days.

 

One hand still free, she was able to finesse her phone from her jeans and dial with her thumb. A single, quiet conversation, and she tossed the phone towards the now empty chair before shifting Shawn's resting form down to her lap.

 

Wide awake as she'd been an hour ago, charged up and ready for her run, now she blinked away blurred vision and the drag of gravity on her limbs.

 

Soft hair smoothed under her fingertips. She missed this intimacy.

 

And though she'd asked the question a hundred thousand times already, still it didn't stop the single word from rising out of her gut like an acid bubble.

 

Why?

 

 

**~**

 

 

Warm. Too warm – weight across her legs. She smelled cinnamon toast and coffee as she let herself finally live again.

 

Shawn was staring at her. Foot away, a thick pillow between them on the queen sized mattress, he held the edge of a plate while blowing the delicious smells towards her face.

 

“Shawn...” A lilt of amusement underscored by the wind tunnel of odd happy sorrow at waking in Shawn's bed. Breakfast in bed no less. Well, a glance at her watch, more like a late lunch.

 

“Oh, is that bacon?” The wall the closest thing she had to a headboard – Shawn had yet to replace the frame from his old bed – she accepted the plate and rested it across her knees. Toast, bacon, and a peeled tangerine had been garnished with a sprig of... “Celery?”

 

Shawn set her coffee on one of the boxes beside the bed. “It seems I don't have any mint and Gus won't share his.”

 

It ached just beneath her breastbone – giggling at his humor. Too long out of practice – and thinking about that hurt as well. She ate while he watched her – pillow hugged tight against him. Amazingly skilled in the kitchen for all that Shawn usually preferred cereal – regardless of the time of day. Still, he liked to cook for her. Somewhat hit and miss with his efforts, he usually managed toast without burning.

 

“You aren't hungry?” She asked while chewing – well into eating before taking note that Shawn wasn't so much as attempting to steal a wedge of fruit. Instead, he slid his hand across the sheet and pressed his fingers, warm and gentle, against her wrist. A moment later his palm was soft against her cheek.

 

She was feeling tears gather against his fingertips as she leaned into him – lips finding his and uncaring as butter from her toast mashed into the bedspread.

 

She hadn't been prepared for tears. They were a blunt shock – like turning on the radio, expecting soft rock, but getting death metal instead. She gave up on food completely when Shawn's arms curved around her shoulders. Her breath stuttered out words birthed from an aching fury finally having a voice.

 

“I would kill her! I w-want to kill h-her!” Snuffling inhale wet with sobbing and she held tighter – nails bunching up the cotton shirt under her hands. “I could rip her to shreds wi-ith my b-bare hands – that BITCH!”

 

Shawn's arms hugged tightly – enough that it nearly hurt before he sucked in a giant breath and started to loosen his hold. Another moment and he sagged. And then he shook out something that sounded like... a laugh.

 

“I'd hate for you to... destroy that manicure.”

 

Pulling back from his grip enough to see his face, Juliet shuddered with laughter – hitting just as hard and painfully as her tears. Shawn was laughing as well – brows pushed up high on his forehead and eyes wet.

 

She kissed him between gasps.

 

She heard the slip of her breakfast tray pushing across the bed until it toppled over the edge. Her lips were too busy finding Shawn's throat to allow her mind to care about the mess on the carpet. His heartbeat pounded under her mouth. His fingers trembled as they knotted up in her hair. His mouth was just as fierce when it crushed against hers again. She was back to sobbing as his fingers began to pull open the buttons of her shirt.

 

“I miss you! God, I miss you so much...”

 

 

**~**

 

It was easy, in the end.

 

The request had gone through the staff rather than anything like official channels. Her record, as of the last 24 months, had been perfectly clear. And, really, save for a minor wobble while on her little day trip (which was so not murder so much as an act of heroic redemption, come on), she had a practically perfect reputation at the institution. She'd even made friends among the staff. One of those friends had accompanied her to the little meet-up.

 

Yang wriggled her wrists where they were clamped in front of her. Always shackled when out of her room, at least Nurse Helen kept them loose and always checked her over for injuries when they were removed again. The thing was, the chains made a pleasant sound. Like bells on Christmas. They brought out memories from Christmas movies of reindeer and Santa and happy kids and happy families. So different from what she'd lived. No child should grow up with so much sorrow.

 

The lights were dimmed, only a little, in the evening. There were windows in this part of the hospital. The glass was thick and reenforced, but lacked bars to impede the soft warmth of orange from the sunset.

 

“Miss Rhonda, you have a visitor.” Nurse Helen guided her charge towards the bank of windows opposite the evening light. The older nurse rested her forehead against the glass; smiling at the tiny thing sleeping in his incubator.

 

Rhonda turned from her own study to smile at the woman joining her. “I knew you'd come!”

 

Yang grinned. “Of course! How could I turn away the chance of a late afternoon rendezvous? And you'd written it out on such lovely card stock besides!” It really had been lovely – violet colored paper and neat penmanship in spite of the felt tip marker.

 

Rhonda's nurse, Martha, had drifted a few feet away to catch the last bit of sunlight on her round face. She chuckled – her eyes still half closed against the beams of light filtering through pine trees. “She begged and begged until we finally gave in. How are your art classes going, honey?”

 

Yang wriggled her wrists. “It's super fun! Yesterday I painted a pink submarine.” She shrugged towards the other nurse. “I was all out of yellow.”

 

Martha closed her eyes and tilted up her chin. “That sounds very nice.”

 

Rhonda slid her toes closer to the glass fronting the small nursery. Her fingertips left oval prints where they pressed on the smooth pane. “Every time I look at him I... I can't believe he's mine. I'd wanted him for so long and now, here he is. I know you understand that. To yearn for something so long.”

 

Her eyes slipped sideways towards her companion. “What you wrote... your passion and desire... It was so inspiring. I feel as though this was a gift from you, in a way. Well, from you and Shawn.” Her cheeks blushed a dusty rose.

 

Yang tipped her shoulders left and right in a small dance. “Well, Shawn is very inspiring!”

 

Rhonda chuckled. “Yes, he is!” Her face turned back towards the small room and its sleeping occupant.

 

“He's so precious, isn't he? So beautiful and innocent.”

 

Yang's step was soft; her slippered feet barely tapping the marble floor. Arms lifted to hug the woman from behind. The slipping orange light reflected their forms in the glass. The shackles dropped their chains and Yang cupped Rhonda's head in her hands; her voice a whisper. “Like his father.”

 

The screams of the nurses echoed in the last of the evening light.

 

Later, the nurses would both confess that Yang had moved too quickly for them to react; claiming the notorious game master/ alleged serial killer had rushed Mrs. Woods and snapped her neck before either of them could intervene. Both women were placed on administrative leave pending a full investigation. Yang lost even her limited privileges and was put back into her isolated cell for a duration of no less than three months. She was, however, allowed occasional visitors.

 

Three days after the murder of Rhonda Woods, Yang received a single visitor to her cell.

 

He arrived, as he had, once before. He wore the same white coveralls – hood down on his shoulders. He'd lost weight but he looked healthy otherwise.

 

There were words trapped somewhere in his cheeks. Yang could see the way they tried to sneak past his lips. He licked them back with a flicking tongue.

 

Grinning wide at his gleaming eyes, Yang cupped her arms around her knees. “You're welcome.”

 

Nothing was said after that. He didn't nod, or smile, or cry, or scream, or do anything more than breathe. And soon, he left again.

 

It was enough, though, that he'd come. It was enough.

 


	24. What the Future Holds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It may be the hardest choice he's ever had to make.
> 
> But he won't have to do it alone.
> 
> Henry makes a phone call.

It was cool for that time of year. Plenty of blue sky but the clouds had that ashy, pre-rain sort of look. It made the waiting room of the blocky gray building she sat in seem even more solemn. Juliet leaned her head against the wall. Her right hand felt around beside her until she found her water bottle – twisting off the cap to take a small sip. She'd stopped listening, to whatever was playing over the speakers, a long time ago.

 

Not the day off they'd planned for themselves. Still building themselves back together again – rediscovering tiny moments of intimacy and desperate for the casual affection they'd once shared. Wondering if they'd ever recapture that “old married couple” closeness or if there would always be that third presence between them. And, God, even in her own head she cringed at how that sounded. Realizing there always would, literally, be a third person. A piece of Shawn that was torn from him. A piece with its own soul and own life that wouldn't have lived but for an act of violence and betrayal. Innocence from innocence lost.

 

She was crying again and the last thing Shawn needed would be to come back to her tears. Finding, a somewhat crumpled tissue in her purse, Juliet pressed it against the salty wet on her cheeks and hoped the redness didn't show.

 

She understood about facing demons; even if facing said demon wasn't the primary reason for their visit. There'd been a lot of conversation about even coming today at all. So many questions. So much... dread. Woods' murder hadn't registered between them other than Juliet feeling a sudden horrified gratitude and kinship with Yang - a woman who'd previously occupied so many nightmares.

 

Her cell buzzed again and she slipped it from her pocket to check her messages.

 

_**Offer still stands** _

 

Her thumbs tapped at the screen as she felt another tear leak free – this one from the rush of sudden affection and gratefulness towards her partner.

 

_**We're ok. Seeing James soon. Will call after** _

 

Lassiter, Henry, and even Gus had all wanted to accompany them to the institution – though not for exactly the same reasons. Lassiter; because he had no trust in the safety of a facility that had allowed a notorious killer the freedom to murder another inmate. Gus; because this was his best friend and that's what best friends do. Henry; because... because. But both she and Shawn had turned down the offers. It was something terribly complex and intimate and they needed to handle it alone.

 

The day Shawn had called her, panicked and overwhelmed, it was because of the message he'd received from a woman named Martha James; a sort of legal council slash intermediary brought in by the institution's upper management.

 

The choice to call back Ms. James hadn't happened until late the night before. James hadn't known the circumstances between Shawn and Rhonda Woods. She was a facilitator and had only been concerned with the charge dropped in her lap.

 

Another mushroom of panic swelled up her throat. God, what the hell were they doing?

 

She was still gathering back her emotions when the doors to the secure area slid open. Seconds later, hands tucked into his pockets, Shawn walked through.

 

He didn't look at anything other than the marbled tile beneath his feet as he made slow steps back towards the bench where Juliet had waited. She could hear the dull smack of his soles on the floor as he neared – the pace increasing the closer he approached. Shoulders hung low, head low, eyes low...

 

A moment later she was on her feet and closing the rest of the distance – one hand lifting to rest against his arm. He breathed – a deep suck of breath as though he hadn't had oxygen since entering the institution.

 

“You okay?”

 

Shawn locked his arms around her shoulders and pushed his face tight against her cheek. Stubble scraped her skin. His shoulder was hard beneath her chin – muscles bunched and tight. She wanted to take him home. Her heartbeat pounded between them – so like panic, that urgency to pull him out of this space and back outdoors. And just... away. Away from any more of nightmares.

 

A staff member was already approaching, though.

 

“Mr. Shawn Spencer?”

 

His biceps flexed around her – fingers curling, just for a moment, into the back of her blouse. And then he stepped back – one hand brushing the hair from her forehead before turning on his heel.

 

“Present.”

 

The woman held out one hand. “Marion Gleese. Would you please come with me?”

 

Juliet swallowed against her jumping throat. Flashback on every doctor visit, dental exam, and family death (both grandparents on her father's side and a cousin she'd barely known). Smiling, once, at Shawn as she wrapped her fingers around his and moved from hard tile to industrial carpeting once they were through the solid wood door to the right of the receptionist's desk.

 

Ms. Gleese led them downstairs, through a hallway with windows looking out on a cultivated yard filled with trees and flowers, and into another waiting area. The colors were softer in that small room. Only a few sofas and overstuffed chairs. It was a room that encouraged harmony with the warm beige and spots of gentle greens and blues.

 

“Have a seat anywhere you'd like. I'll go fetch Ms. James. Would either of you care for some coffee?”

 

Shawn was poking at one of the chairs. Juliet smiled and shook her head. “No, thank you.”

 

Nodding, and with a crinkly smile back, Ms. Gleese left them alone as she headed through a door on the far end of the room.

 

Juliet was left with trying to make impossible conversation again. Shawn, though, had wandered towards the corner of the room where a small collection of books and plush toys were arranged. One finger poked at a stuffed opossum – only to fumble and lunge for it when it toppled – the small thing clearly stuffed with bricks as it proceeded to toppled a haphazard stack of tattered coloring books, vinyl toys, and a wooden dinosaur puzzle.

 

“Oh, hang on, let me...”

 

“I got it, Jules!”

 

She'd only taken a step when Shawn snapped – bending to snatch the scattered items. He'd only slammed a couple things mostly back into place when he stopped. A thick breath lifted his ribcage. The edge of his wrist rubbed across his lip.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

Juliet nodded. “It's okay.”

 

His eyes shut and he sniffed – covering both eyes with his hands pressed hard against his lids.

 

Behind them, the door scraped across the thick carpet as it pushed open.

 

“Mr. Spencer?”

 

Juliet turned as Ms. Gleese re-entered the room. Shawn took a last swipe at his eyes before biting his jaw tight so that his cheek bulged. He didn't fully face the woman – eyes instead tracking her pale lavender pumps.

 

“If you could please follow me, Ms. James is ready to see you.”

 

The hall beyond the door was far narrower than the hospital corridor. There was barely room to walk side by side. Thick beige carpet softened their steps and the pinstriped wallpaper had the feel of a corporation rather than the professional offices of an institution. It was also the first place Juliet had seen any art. It was an eclectic mix of styles. Some of the designs were a sparse collection of lines whereas other pieces were wild with thick paint and brilliant swirls of color. While it should have been immediately obvious, it still took Juliet a few moments to realize the art had all been created by the residents. She stumbled to a stop in front of one, notable, canvas. Lucky Charms cereal had been glued to the surface to make a face. Marshmallows gave their bits of color in strategic places – moons and rainbows for hair – clovers and blue diamonds in the eyes. It was amazing for its accuracy. It was Shawn. The single name signature at the bottom wasn't needed to identify the artist. Juliet swallowed and looked beyond her shoulder.

 

Shawn had stopped – his eyes roving over the design. A moment later he grinned. “Rainbow. Good color. You know, I'd been thinking about a change.” He blinked, and then held his hand out until Juliet took it in hers. Together they walked into the last room at the end of the hall.

 

Ms. Gleese gave a soft double rap on the door as she pushed through. Juliet and Shawn followed her to where Martha James was standing up from her desk. Heavy gold jewelry swung on one dark wrist as she offered a handshake to the couple. Silent, Gleese backed from the room, and shut the door with hardly a bump against the frame.

 

James waved towards the cluster of small chairs and a couch to the right of her desk and positioned next to a large bay window. Juliet sat first – letting Shawn find a spot on the couch beside her. The window was at her back and warm green light fell against her shoulders – everything beyond the glass made soft and hazy by the thick foliage of a willow just outside.

 

James sat opposite them; a large folder tucked into the chair beside her. Juliet couldn't help thinking of her grandmother. Something in the way the older woman smiled. She looked nothing like Nana O'Hara. Juliet's grandmother always wore her long, silver hair in a princess roll. And the last time anyone had seen her in pants was sometime in the late 60s; her style preference being floor length hippie skirts that, as she often claimed, saved her time by dusting her floors as she walked through the room. Ms. James was the opposite in almost every physical way save the color of her hair. And yet, there was that same, comfortable peace. Whether she shared Nana's humor; well unlikely they'd discover that at their meeting that day.

 

“I can get you coffee, or tea if you'd like?”

 

Juliet was beginning to wonder if they doped their beverages; they had been offered refreshments about four times since arriving at the the facility.

 

“No – thank you. We'd just like to...” Go home? Wake up from this? Start over and prevent this from ever...

 

“Do you have water?” Shawn hadn't quite settled – the cushions dipping with his movements. The older woman nodded. “Sierra Springs okay?”

 

Shawn guzzled at the bottle as Ms. James sank back into her seat. She waited until the cap was screwed back into place, hands in a loose knot on one crossed knee, before speaking again. Her eyes switched from Shawn, wiping water from his chin, to Juliet.

 

“Ms... O'Hara? Correct?”

 

Juliet sat up a bit more – feeling the itch to curl her hand into Shawn's palm. “Yes. Jul- Detective Juliet O'Hara. Of the SBPD.” Something about the woman sparked the need for her title. As the woman smiled again, Juliet wondered where she'd ever made the association with her grandmother.

 

“Are you here in a legal capacity for Mr. Spencer? Because this meeting does not fall under the jurisdiction of the Santa Barbara Police Department. Furthermore, these matters are confidential and, unless you are here to act as Mr. Spencer's representative, I must ask you to step outside.”

 

Shawn fumbled the bottle as he snatched Juliet's fingers. “She stays! She's...”

 

“I am Mr. Spencer – I am Shawn's colleague at the SBPD. I am also his girlfriend. And I am not leaving unless he wants me to go.”

 

Burgundy nails tapped out a soundless tune on the other woman's pant leg. “I must say, you are a very faithful woman, Ms. O'Hara. Sorry; Detective.” Ms. James was already leafing through her folder while Juliet was doing her best not to clutch Shawn's hand so hard that she broke bones. As it was, his grip was just as tight – his arm shaking against her side.

 

“Now, I realize you may want more time to think about all of this. As it is, I am not in a position to grant you that time. The death of Mrs. Woods has created an added complication to these matters. Additionally, the infant is still in delicate heath. As his advocate, it is my duty to provide a guardian as soon as possible.” Ms. James breathed out and folded her long fingers over the stack of paperwork.

 

“To be honest, you have had ample time to make a decision in this matter. I understand that you were well aware of Mrs. Woods pregnancy and were also aware that you, Mr. Spencer, were the father of her child. Whether or not you chose to pursue a relationship with Rhonda Woods is irrelevant to me, Mr. Spencer. The fact remains that you created a child with her and, for better or worse, you are this child's father and legal guardian.”

 

Juliet burned to set the record straight. And yet, she knew that Shawn was actually grateful that his assault was not a matter of public knowledge. Still, even if it was, she wondered how many people would truly give him the benefit of the doubt.

 

Shawn's fingers had loosened a bit but his palms were warm and moist in her hold.

 

Papers shuffled as Ms. James pulled free a booklet thick pile from her stack. “You have two options open to you. Should you feel the burden too great, the child will be put into the Foster Care system. We would make every effort to find a suitable home and, with luck, the child will hopefully be adopted. Babies are in higher demand so there is a chance the infant would find a new home quickly. I must be straight with you, though. Many children spend their entire childhood in a series of foster homes without ever being adopted. I want you to think, hard, about that before we proceed.”

 

Shawn released Juliet's hand – wrapping his fingers around the couch cushion and bending forward over his knees. While they had spoken about this, repeatedly, they had yet to make a solid decision. Shawn had avoided the subject entirely until they'd been notified about the death of Woods. And, though Juliet ached to take this weight from Shawn's shoulders, he had to be the one to give the final word.

 

In spite of her manner, Ms. James was silent while Shawn thought it out. His hands were still – so atypical of his natural fidgetiness. As for Juliet, she had to keep her free hand in a fist to avoid plucking fibers from the soft cushion beneath her.

 

Sunlight was fading out – softening the green haze to a dusty blue.

 

Shawn breathed out.

 

 

~

 

Henry was bent over the cold case, picking among the cellophane wrapped cuts of steak, when his cell played out a blunt ring. His back cracked as he straightened. One hand still clutched the sirloin he'd been considering while the other freed his phone from his jeans. Shawn. Henry dropped the steak back into the case and headed towards the exit as he answered.

 

“Hey, kid.”

 

He was outside the sliding doors before Shawn answered. Henry's steps slowed as he neared his truck; until he was next to the bed – a hand latched onto the edge. It wasn't many moments before Shawn emptied of words – before Juliet took over. Her voice steady where Shawn's had begun to tremble.

 

“Okay. No, I'll let Maddie know.” His thumb rubbed at a bit of rust bubbling the yellow paint beneath his palm. “Yeah, I will. You and Shawn should head home and get some rest.” He moved from rubbing at the paint to rubbing his eyes. “I know he won't. Have you talked to Gus-? Okay, good. No, it's right that you called him first – you don't need to apologize.” Across the lot, a group of small children boiled out of the store ahead of their harried parents. Henry cringed as one youngster darted off the sidewalk – heedless of traffic. A lunge and grab from his panicked father saved him from tragedy.

 

“Look, Juliet, I am here for you both. Whatever you need. I'm at the store now. How about I pick up a few extra steaks? I can stop by tomorrow afternoon if you don't mind me borrowing your grill. Alright. Yes, okay. And, Juliet? Tell Shawn...” His hand moved across his forehead – squeezing at his temples. “Tell him I'm here. No matter what. You won't be alone.”

 

He lifted into the truck and held his steering wheel in fists. The low lying sun was a smudge of orange over the trees – thin beams spreading across the lot and dragged long shadows in their wake. Heat from the warm afternoon had begun to fade with the closing evening and a chill of ocean breeze raised the hairs on Henry's arm.

 

Breathing out – body sinking down on the seat, he activated the screen a second time and dialed his ex wife.

 

She'd known to expect a call, so the phone only rang a few times.

 

“ _Henry. How did it go? How are Shawn and Juliet?”_

 

He'd imagined speaking words like this, once. When it had become serious between Shawn and Juliet. He'd seen a future building between them that had allowed him to daydream about so many possibilities.

 

He breathed in and held it – hot moisture flushing behind his eyes. God.

 

“They said yes. They'll be bringing the baby home in two weeks.”

 


	25. A Single Light to Guide Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it! We've reached the final chapter! Just an epilogue to go, after this! Thank you, thank you, thank you for the kudos, the comments, and the read counts! I am so grateful to everyone for sticking with this thing to the end!

 

Henry was alone in the house. He'd handed Juliet a fifty, something that had made her chuckle at the dad gesture, and sent her, his son, and Guster to pick up some pizzas. Odd, after so long alone in the old place... to suddenly have it fill with life again.

 

There was little cleaning left to do, though Henry still ran a cloth over the counter. They'd done a lot in the last couple of weeks; especially given the abrupt change in plans.

 

There had been a lot of conversations, those first few days; the logistics of everyone's daily schedule quickly becoming a roadblock to the minute to minute care of the... He breathed and rubbed the back of his wrist across his forehead.

 

It had been Juliet to first suggest Shawn move back home – emphatic that it was temporary. But her reasoning had made sense. Most days she would be on duty; leaving Shawn alone at their apartment with a responsibility he had zero practice in handling. Henry still had no idea how any of this was going to work out. But by staying at the house, Shawn would have the help of his father – a person who'd actually held an infant and, whatever Shawn may think about the matter, puppies were not the same as babies.

 

Grabbing the vacuum, Henry made for the stairs. Shawn's old room was at the end of the hall while Henry's was closer to the stairs, next to the bathroom. Directly across from the bathroom, next to Shawn's room, was the rarely used guest room; recently converted into a nursery.

 

A trip to IKEA had provided a crib, bassinet, and several other furnishings. Henry had debated about unpacking some boxes from the garage; filled with baby things from over thirty years ago. He hadn't, however. Not yet.

 

The furnishings were new yet it still felt like time travel; back thirty-five years, to step into that silent space.

 

With the infant in Maddie's care; getting some one on one “gramma time”, Henry was able to straighten things up and deal with the clutter, dirty dishes, and general mess that had accumulated after the first few weeks of having his son back home. Shawn had... well, he hadn't said much... about anything. Not that Henry could blame him, really. Everything was so...

 

He'd thought, maybe, with Madeleine in town for a week, that Shawn would open up to her a little. It was his ex-wife's first time meeting the baby and, unlike the rest of them, she'd bonded with the infant immediately – even getting something of a smile from the tiny creature. Too small for much more, however, and Henry had debated that the kid was just pooping.

 

Bumping into Shawn's room, mouth turning down at the stink of dirty socks and shirts spilled across the floor, he kicked the shed clothing into a pile next to the door. He'd haul it all down to the laundry room once he was finished. At the moment, though, he concentrated on vacuuming the crumbs and debris.

 

Fifteen minutes of decluttering later, Henry grunted with the weight of the laundry basket as he made his way through the kitchen. Whatever his mood, the kid was gonna have to start pulling his weight – at least with his own shit.

 

With Shawn's dirty clothes sloshing around in a hot bath, the bulk of Henry's work was finished. So, now what?

 

Usually he'd start dinner. However, there would be pizza on the way within the next forty-five minutes so food prep was out. Maddie wouldn't be back until then, either. Too short a time to watch anything on TV; not that there was anything good on, that time of day, anyhow.

 

He wasn't a big fan of brooding under the guise of self-reflection. He'd done plenty of that, though, in the last months. Maybe that was partly why he'd wanted Shawn close by. With the added activity in the house it left less time for pondering this left turn into chaos.

 

Yeah, maybe he should give the bathrooms one more wipe down...

 

 

~~~

 

 

 

It didn't feel like his room anymore. He missed his old place – even if he shuddered when he remembered it. He shuddered every time he smelled fruit pastries of any flavor. He used to love those things.

 

The walls felt like bars – even with the familiar color of childhood. The memories attached to this house were bitter but faint. They'd never been enough to keep his adult self away, anyhow, and for the past five or so years, there'd been a lot of demon slaying to make things practically rosy. He and his dad were always going to have their issues but at least they'd managed to go a few days without a major explosion. Minor ones were just standard communication and, honestly, were a stabilizing influence that kept at least a crumb of their world normal.

 

Juliet had wanted to stay; just like most nights. Most nights, Shawn was absolutely okay with that. However, she had to be to the courthouse by eight the next morning to give a deposition on the trial for some guy who'd killed a store clerk while robbing a footwear outlet. Whenever she stayed over, she always ended up getting up with him in the dead of night. If there was anything regular about their lives, lately, it was the thin screaming cries that jarred them from sleep at about 3am, every, single, night.

 

He'd known that night would be no different. He'd known that. But somehow he'd shuffled that _knowing_ beneath his mental pile of procrastinated detritus along with what he planned to do about his future and whether or not it was fair to ask Juliet to be a part of it.

 

Wails. Distorted by the baby monitor, their sharpness jolted right through the pillow he'd crushed over his head. His own wail was muted through down and cotton – the desperate edge of irritation and resignation emerging in a guttural rumble from beneath the covers. Waiting too long would rouse the other adult – something he really wasn't prepared to deal with in the earliest of earlies. Bad enough having to drag heavy limbs from his mattress the last thing he needed was yet another critique on feeding one end and changing the other. Okay, so the first few wrapping and taping sessions hadn't been completely on point but at least the diapers hadn't fallen off. Completely.

 

But... God... so much poop...

 

The legs of his pajamas tried to tie a knot as he tugged them on and he yanked – irritation blowing up into outrage as he battled them into submission – standing even before they were in place and stumbling on the cuffs for his trouble.

 

The trip to the door, at least, was incident free thanks to his dad's compulsive cleaning that afternoon.

 

The hallway still smelled of faint pepperoni. Behind one door his father coughed a few times – the bedsprings creaking as he rolled in his sleep. Behind the other door – the tiny wails kicked into high gear – the shrieks going to a register that would set off the neighborhood dogs if he let it go any longer.

 

“Hey, hey, hey...” The tiny burrito raged even louder. Far from comfortable with handling the delicate thing, Shawn eased his fingers under the swaddling blankets – fingers fanned beneath the head and its wild shock of dark hair. Pulling the infant against his chest, he swiveled back and forth – trying to spot the mini fridge in the dark. Even with the elephant nightlight, it was hard to see the little unit humming away in the corner – electric bottle warmer on top. Arms loaded with crabby baby, Shawn was torn between heating a bottle or checking the diaper. Both options would mean putting the baby down but, while fussing still, at least the cries had fallen out of the piercing range.

 

Dead from lack of sleep – eyes gummy and mouth sticking he ended up going with the least demanding option of folding into the padded rocking chair next to the crib.

 

He missed Juliet.

 

It was a malignant growth in his chest – branches of tissue pushing into his lungs, heart, stomach...

 

His knees pushed them back and forth; rocking the chair against the carpet and squeaking into the low pile – the cries lifting from the barely mollified baby fussing into full fury once more. The little thing wasn't a fan of sitting. Shawn wasn't certain he had the energy for standing.

 

He rocked.

 

Baby cried.

 

He rocked.

 

Tree branches screeked against the window panes.

 

He rocked.

 

Fingers traced along his eyebrows – a red smile splitting over white teeth.

 

“ _Shawn...”_

 

“HUHH!!” Full body lurch set the bundle in his arms shrieking and two hands held his shoulders while his heart shoved its bulk into his throat.

 

“Jesus – dad!” Sweat, icy chill, beaded across his upper lip while his eyes flicked attention to every corner – every shadow.

 

He lifted the baby higher; hands feeling enormous around the miniature body; micro-trembles shivering beneath the skin.

 

“Here – let me...”

 

“I got it.” Avoiding his father's calloused mitts, Shawn wobbled out of the chair and shuffled to the fridge – only to see his Pops had already started heating one of the pre-filled bottles.

 

“How long you been up?” He yawned through his words – voice distorting their timbre around the jaw creaking groan.

 

Henry scratched his ribs through the thin cotton of his undershirt. “About ten minutes. Had to use the bathroom and heard the kid fussing. Didn't know you were in here.”

 

Shawn nodded – heavy lids over sand abraded eyes. In his arms, a soft head rolled to the right – mouthing a wrinkle in his shirt. Hold shifting – the jostled movement only reestablished the default of piercing screams. Grunting, Shawn pushed the baby towards his father – who made no comment as he took the infant and raised him against his shoulder – softly patting his bottom and rocking on his heels. The cries stopped almost immediately.

 

“How do you do that?”

 

Knuckles rubbed against one eye – Shawn was well aware of the disheveled mess of his person – not one hair going in a direction that made sense – clothes spit-up stained and wrinkled even beyond his normally casual dress. All that said, he didn't care for the sympathetic and weirdly soft look his dad sent his way so his occupied the awkward moment by tossing the used baby blanket towards the hamper.

 

Behind him, the floorboards gave muted creaks as his father bounced on his heels. Then he heard a chuckle. “You remember what I always told you – how long it took to get a smile from you after you were born?”

 

Shawn nodded, turning back towards the old man. “Three months. It's why we never celebrate my birthday on my actual birthday.” A thread of spite worked into his tone – one his father acknowledged with a head tip.

 

“You were tight with your mother right from the start. Never wanted anyone else to hold you – cried if anyone else picked you up. And, for whatever reason, your reaction to me was worse than it was with anyone else. Kid, you woke neighbors four houses down with your midnight squalls. Thirty-some years later, Jody Nusbaum still gives me the stink eye every time I go to get the mail. You remember her? Always had those giant dogs...”

 

“Great Danes,” Shawn rubbed his bicep – eyes off focus towards the far side of the room. “And I think the stink eye has more to do with you backing your truck over her hydrangeas.”

 

“Yeah. Well, the point is, Shawn, by the time that first month had rolled by, I was pretty well convinced I wasn't meant to be a father. In fact, I was ready to beg the Chief to put me on third shift just to avoid traumatizing you. Obviously I had no clue what I was doing and it was just as obvious you couldn't stand the sight of me.”

 

Still rocking in place, Henry's soft tone was now the only sound. The baby had drifted off – eyes shut to slits and one tight fist wrapped in his grandfather's shirt.

 

Shawn worked his lips around the variety of responses to that – finally choosing silence as his heart wasn't into either accusation or mockery. He was just so tired.

 

Making his way to the crib, Henry eased the tiny body down to the blankets – placing a fluffy chick toy near the infant's head before straightening again. Still holding the rim of the crib, he shifted his feet – resting his weight on his hip.

 

“It was hard. We'd been so excited to have a child... but from day one it seemed like I couldn't do anything right.” One calloused finger reached down to rub against a soft cheek – triggering a half-smile and a slurry of bubbles. Turning to place his back against the door frame, Henry folded his arms – one hand rubbing his bicep.

 

Shawn poked the rocking chair with one finger – watching it tip slightly against the carpet. “I realize I'm going to regret asking for you to expand upon your life lesson... but, fine, give me your insights into what makes a perfect dad.”

 

The sarcasm was thick enough to trigger a long breath – though the proximity of the baby fended off any angry rants. All the withheld ire, though, made for a very red face while his pops probably counted as high as thirty.

 

“I don't have the answer to that, Shawn. If I did, I would have likely done things a lot differently. I have a lot of regrets – I think most fathers do. I screwed up plenty and, yes, I know you could probably list most of those times.” Both hands cupped over the back of his neck. “I know you didn't want this,”

 

Shawn stopped his movements – fingertips going white where they still pressed against the wood of the chair. The hot flush of heat flooded behind his sinuses so fast he had to grind his knuckles against the corners of his eyes until it hurt; just to stop it before it started. The single hitch in his chest was the only thing he couldn't force down. Thank God his dad didn't try to pat him on the back or one arm hug him.

 

“I just wanted to give you the best chance I could. I wanted everything for you. But, maybe, I wanted too much of what I'd wanted for myself. To see you grow up just like me... instead of having the wisdom to let you grow up just like you. The thing is... I couldn't... I couldn't be more proud to see that you managed to do that, anyhow... in spite of me. Kid, you are going to screw up. And he'll resent you for it – probably tell you he hates you a few times...”

 

Shawn bit his lip through a saltwater grin.

 

“...But the thing that really matters – not the lessons or lectures or discipline or any of that crap. Just love your kid. And make sure he knows you love him.”

 

 

~~~

 

 

Juliet scrubbed fingers through the mess of her hair. Maybe she shouldn't have taken that extra hour for a jog but she hadn't been out for a run all week and, tired as she was, her muscles had been desperate for a workout.

 

With her weekend starting the next day, she'd done her best to overcome the guilt of taking a few extra hours to herself – knowing the next two days would be spent with Shawn and the baby. A shower and shopping trip later, she pulled into the driveway outside Henry's house – noting the absence of his truck. Probably another grocery run. He seemed to go on a lot of those.

 

The living room lights were on but the muted TV was the only sign of life. Unpacking her collection of treats on the counter, grabbing a package of mini Oreos from the pile, Juliet kicked off her shoes and headed upstairs.

 

A soft tone barely lifted above the sound of her feet creaking the floorboards. She slowed – keeping to the edge of the hall and moving towards the last door and the thin pane of light flowing over the threshold.

 

She stopped just outside the room – taking in the murmured tune – slipping in and out of pitch. She grinned when she finally placed the song, the theme to the Muppets. Her knuckle nudged open the door wide enough to enter – thankful that Shawn was facing her so she wouldn't startle him.

 

“I didn't realize that was a lullaby,” she whispered.

 

Shawn's fingers never ceased their gentle pat against the baby's lower back. “Well it should be.” He rocked for a few more moments – head tilted against the baby's forehead. “He asleep?”

 

At his words, the infant stiffened – little arms flailing out – before he settled once more.

 

Juliet nodded. “Yeah, he's out cold. You want me to...?” She held out her arms, and Shawn eased the little thing into her hold – where she was more easily able to place him in his crib. They both took a second to watch him; Shawn pulling the blanket a little higher, before leaving the room. Juliet passed him the Oreos and Shawn dug in like he hadn't eaten in months.

 

They didn't speak until they were back in the kitchen. Shawn sat at the table while Juliet started putting away her purchases. Watching him rub his eyes, she felt even guiltier for not coming right over after work.

 

“Have you been alone long?”

 

Yawning, Shawn leaned back in a long stretch that popped several vertebra.

 

“Nah. Dad has only been gone about twenty minutes. Not sure where he went though the words 'your mother' and 'dinner' came up.”

 

Juliet smirked – heading for the fridge, next. “Speaking of which, are you hungry? I think there's still some leftover pizza – or I could heat up those ribs from Tuesday.”

 

“Pizza's fine.”

 

There was, actually, quite a lot of pizza left. They both stacked their plates with an assortment of thin crust, deep dish, and hand tossed. Juliet even set out the ground Parmesan and red pepper flakes.

 

Shawn was on his forth piece before he started to slow his chewing – fingers picking at toppings; making a minor pile of onions and soggy mushrooms. Juliet reached across for his hand – waiting until he slid his back and opened his fingers – squeezing softly.

 

She rubbed her thumb over his knuckles. “You okay?”

 

Shawn set down the wedge of pizza he'd mostly reduced to pockmarked crust. “Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay.” He nodded – eyebrows lifting as his head tipped back. Without speaking, he reached out his other hand – fingertips flicking. Juliet took that hand as well – both of them stretching across the table towards one another. A corner of Shawn's mouth lifted.

 

“I thought of something, while you were gone.”

 

Licking marinara from the corner of her lip, Juliet tipped her head left – smiling. “Oh? What did you think of?” Her smile started to fade, though, at the seriousness of Shawn's face. The intensity.

 

“A name.”

 

A name...? Oh...! Breath hitched up and a cool sting flooded her sinuses.

 

Since the first day they'd brought the child home, he hadn't had a name. It hadn't really been discussed at length – save for the way Shawn's face would freeze every time the case worker had referred to the infant by the same name as his father.

 

Rubbing her cheek against her shoulder, Juliet chuckled. “Alright – what did you come up with? Let me guess... Henry Gus Spencer?”

 

Shawn wrinkled his lip. “God, no! You think I'm going to saddle that poor kid with my dad's name?”

 

Juliet shrugged. “What about Gus?”

 

“I plan to name our first dog, Gus.”

 

Juliet dropped her chin. “Shawn...”

 

He squeezed her fingers again. “I thought... what better name, than the two greatest characters from the previous four... five... six decades?”

 

Worried, Juliet sat back, slightly. “...aaand that would be...?”

 

 

 

~~~

 

 

Henry shook his head at the amended birth certificate. Written in bold print at the top of the form was the official name of his grandson from that day forward. Leave it to Shawn to come up with something both ridiculous and obscure.

 

**Phineus Axel Spencer**

 

Phin, for short.

 

Another head shake as he filed the certificate in the lock box at the back of his closet. Then he chuckled. Well, he'd had to listen to Shawn bitch about his name for the past thirty or so years. It was an odd sort of justice that Shawn would enjoy the same griping from his own kid.

 

At that moment, a shout rose up from the foot of the stairs. “Hey, Pops, come on! We're starved!!”

 

Shoving the box back in place, Henry pushed up on sore knees.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm coming!”

 

Closing the door behind him, he headed back down.

 


End file.
